


Everything About You

by grayola



Series: Everything With You [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Companion Piece, Escort Service, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Online Relationship, Personal Growth, Romance, Self-Worth Issues, Slow Burn, Social Media, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 124,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayola/pseuds/grayola
Summary: Retelling ofLike Real People Dofrom the perspective of Ian.In hopes of saving for his future, Ian Gallagher works nights on kestrel, an iOS app specializing in paid sex services. The rules there are pretty simple: appeal to your clientbase, build fantasies, and maintain appropriate boundaries. This is the story of how Ian breaks every damn rule and falls in love with Mickey Milkovich.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Everything With You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874386
Comments: 534
Kudos: 1145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First! If you haven’t read [Like Real People Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535271/chapters/56449288), I recommend that you read that one before you start this. This is a completely different fic that will hopefully read fine on its own, but I very much wrote this as the second half of a pair, and in an effort to avoid making it feel like you’re reading the same fic twice, I’m striving to only repeat conversations when necessary. Because of that, I may occasionally reference conversations that take place only in LRPD. It shouldn’t be anything that would keep you from comprehending EAY, but if you ever reach a point where you’re like, “What does that even mean?” it’s probably a reference to LRPD. My advice if you haven’t read LRPD would be to read Mickey’s Chapter 1 and then Ian’s Chapter 1 and continue that way throughout the updates, as that will give you the most complete experience. 
> 
> Second! Thank you so much for stopping by. I’m completely blown away by the love and support given to me through LRPD, and I hope you’ll enjoy this one as well. Full disclosure: there’s no possible way that I will be able to update this one as frequently as LRPD (i.e. twice a week for the first several chapters). That fic was created and mostly written during a locked down summer, and this fic will be written during a pretty busy rest of the year (even as the world continues to implode around us). However, I’ll try to get it out as regularly as I possibly can and at least a couple times a month.
> 
> And finally! Blanket warning that some of Ian’s stuff gets a little heavy. I will provide specific trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please note that this entire fic is going to deal with self-worth issues and mental health, and there will also be some inexplicit references to thoughts of suicide and issues related to bipolar disorder and self-image both post-diagnosis and due to childhood experiences. _These references will be occasional_ , but they’ll be about as heavily implied as Mickey’s issues with anxiety in LRPD.
> 
> One last thing! You will notice that there are a few underlined terms within the fic. Please hover over them for reminders about some things learned in LRPD. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. <33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A frustrating meeting leads to intrigue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian thinks his new client's an asshole, and then he doesn't.
> 
>  **Warnings for EAY Chapter 1:** contemplation of suicide, references to Ian/Kash, a brief reference to fetishization of a minor by older men, and negative self-image and self-talk (including references to oneself using problematic terms). Most of this takes place in Ian’s past and occurs in the first ~1,000 words only. The rest of the chapter is pretty light.

He considered killing himself on his twenty-first birthday.

Ian had spent most of the past year plowing through menial jobs while he got his GED and worked his ass off trying to prove to his family, the world, and _himself_ that he wasn’t a fucking nutcase. That he wasn’t a zombified Monica Gallagher, on his way to a life of withering away in psych ward after psych ward between psychotic breaks, doped up on meds that made his brain feel soft like cotton and holey like Swiss cheese. 

He woke up at five every morning, bussed tables at Patsy’s until lunch, and then, five days a week, took the L over to Chicago Polytechnic to dump trash cans and mop up co-ed puke until seven.

On the way home every night, he’d curl into himself on the train and listen to whatever depressing shit he could find on Spotify while staring at the scuff-marks on his shoes and picking at the skin peeling off his fingertips from the overuse of alcohol-based cleaner.

He was _rotting_. A fucking zombie, flesh peeling off his bones. 

Never was he the memorable, golden boy straight-A student, but he was a kid who once took summer classes to pad his West Point application, who wanted to be an officer, to do something, mean something, to be one of the proud, the strong, and the brave. Now he’s the batshit middle Gallagher kid who stole a car, drove eighty miles, and was arrested and cornered like a trapped animal, yelling about Gabriel and Jesus in a convenience store with an open Swiss Army knife pointed at the team of officers.

He’d fucked up everything. His future was down the toilet and always would be.

Ian didn’t see himself falling in love or getting married. He didn’t see himself with his own house or his own car. He was bringing home $700 a month, pitching a third of it into the squirrel fund, and hiding the rest away in his bank account for it to rot while he downed his meds under the obsessively-watchful eyes of others and felt more like the undead than he had since he was seventeen and first medicated. Only this time, his meds were balanced, his bipolar was at least mostly under control, and the problem lay not in his brain but in his circumstances.

And he knew the whole spiel: _circumstances are temporary_. He’d read the bumper stickers: _suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem_. 

But every time he’d go home at night and watch TV until three because he couldn’t sleep, or every time he’d laugh at something funny or get wired because of too much caffeine or get _upset_ because Frank was an inconsiderate fucking asshole, Fiona would stare at him warily, would ask him if he’d been taking his meds. 

Apparently, he wasn’t allowed to feel anything ever, and when you’re not allowed to feel anything ever, your first inclination is to just stop. 

He stopped telling Fiona shit, and he stopped fucking people, and he stopped trying to make friends at work because he was just the janitor, just the busboy. He sat in the back yard after work, put in his earbuds, listened to [Radiohead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZq_jeYsbTs), and smoked so many cigarettes his lungs burned.

He was a fuck-up with a fucked up brain, and he was going to live and die in the Southside making minimum wage, dipping in and out of the hospital until he gave up and just _let himself go_. 

Ian stood on a bridge on his twenty-first birthday, and he stared off into the water, and maybe he was overly-tired, and maybe he was slipping a bit into a depressive episode, and maybe he was just so fucking exhausted with the monotony of his rotting life. 

But he considered jumping.

It was more than the call of the void. It was something real, and his hands tingled with it, and he bit his lip and ran his thumbs across the rough, concrete railing, feeling a sharp catch and a sting on his fingertips that felt good, somehow, like a reminder that he was actually there.

And it was at that moment that everything changed.

A beater car stalled out on the other side of the bridge, engine cutting with a sputter, and Ian turned his head just in time to watch an SUV come speeding across and plow into it in such a violent way that the car spun a half-circle, the front crumpling against the side of the bridge. The SUV sped off, and Ian, heart beating like hummingbird wings, ran toward the scene, yelling at the top of his lungs for the motherfucker to _come the fuck back_.

He panted his way toward the car, launched himself at the driver’s side door, and began to beat at the window.

The driver, a middle-aged woman, was unconscious, blood dripping from her hairline, head bent sickeningly over the steering wheel.

Ian cursed and searched the area for anything he could find to break the window, finally locating a chunk of concrete that had chipped away from the bridge and using it to smash through the glass.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered to himself, shoving his arm through the hole and unlocking and pulling open the door, hardly noticing how he was shredding up his forearm on the broken glass, dark rivulets of blood dripping toward his elbow.

He didn’t know much about medical shit, but he knew enough to check the pulse on her neck--knew enough to determine that she was still alive, just knocked out by the steering wheel, maybe--the airbags hadn’t deployed. Knew enough to call for an ambulance and remain with her until they arrived.

Ian watched the EMTs pull her from the car, do a physical assessment, and load her onto a gurney. His heart was in his throat and his skin tingled with the thrumming of blood.

“Is she okay?” he asked the woman who was calmly requesting to see his arm. He heard an edge of desperation in his voice, a tinge of fucking _emotion_ , something he hadn’t heard in months.

“She’s being taken to the hospital, sir,” she answered, checking him out with a flashlight and swiping him gently down with a wet, stinging solution before unrolling gauze wrap onto the area between his wrist and elbow. “You did everything exactly right.”

Ian breathed through his nose and watched the EMS team load the woman onto the ambulance. When the EMT asked if she could call someone for him, he barely caught it, attention so diverted by the as-of-late unfamiliar rush inside him that all he could do was shake his head absently and bite his lip.

His phone rang when the ambulance sped off five minutes later, and it was Fiona, wondering when he’d be home because they had cake and KFC. He chanced a last glance over the side of the bridge, watched the blackness of the rushing water for a pregnant moment, and told her he’d be there in half an hour.

\---

Ian spent the first half of his twenty-first year taking an EMS night course following his double work shifts and studying for his EMT certification exams. In October, he passed with flying colors, lied and shouldered his way into a job with Medical Choice Elite Services, and after being caught, spent the remainder of the year making constant attempts to prove himself as someone who’s really great at his job even though he’s _technically not hirable due to [his] mental health diagnosis_ \--as someone who was given the warning on his very first day, _“you fuck it up, you’re gone, no questions asked.”_

His job gave him a sense of purpose, and he loved it. It filled that fucked up hole somewhere deep in his chest to put his abilities to use for once--to be more than The Crazy Gallagher Who Went Batshit.

Even more than having the opportunity to put his abilities to use was the fact that he was able to _help people_ \--people like him who were fucked up and alone and hurting. It made him feel good in all the ways he was taught it would. _The greatest satisfaction in life comes from serving others_. He _liked_ serving others. He liked checking pulses and wrapping wrists and running through the mental checklist he knew by heart, assessing an injury and making a split-second decision on how best to proceed. He liked speaking calmly to scared children and petting overly-friendly dogs jumping all over him when he arrived at someone’s home to check for possible diabetes complications.

He liked knowing that he was making a difference. That he existed in the world as more than a rotting, bipolar queer from the Southside with a history of failure and a bleak, boring future.

\---  
\---

When he was twenty-two, he started thinking about sex again. 

It was June, and he was masturbating himself to sleep one morning after a nightshift, hand down his boxers and phone playing one of his favorite porn videos--“Hot Roommate Bareback Fuck”--when a banner ad across the bottom of the video caught his eye.

_Hunt. Swoop. Love with No Strings._

It was for an iOS app called “kestrel,” and after Ian had come and wiped himself down with a Kleenex that he proceeded to toss under the bed, he fought off the Masturbator’s Remorse enough to click the ad.

It opened up the App Store on his phone, and he squinted at the tiny text of the description and read about it. 

kestrel was an escort app, apparently, and very much _not_ what Ian was looking for. He couldn’t imagine paying for something he could get for free at any number of clubs in Boystown. Complete waste of money. He closed out of the App Store, clicked off his phone screen, and reached beneath the covers to adjust his boxers.

And maybe it was just because he acknowledged it once that he was able to recognize it in other places, too, but for _weeks_ , kestrel was everywhere. It was on the porn sites he visited and in the spam folder of his email. He saw a Buzzfeed article about it on Facebook and a sticker advertisement stuck to the stall door in the bathroom of the Boneyard.

He shrugged it off, mostly--thinking it was just one of those things. You set your sights on a new car and suddenly you see that make and model everywhere. The Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. He Googled it.

Ian doesn’t believe in fate. It’s hard to believe in much growing up Southside--even God’s iffy, some days. But it’s weird as hell when he has his first sexual encounter in a year with someone he met up with from Grindr and the first thing the guy says after climbing off his dick is, “Man, you oughta be _paid_ for that shit. Y’ever heard of kestrel?”

The guy--“Lex”--texted him some details and an application link later that night when Ian was just getting out of the shower back at the Gallagher house. And to this day, he remembers checking himself out in the bathroom mirror--flexing his smooth pecs, his biceps, his abs--wondering if this would actually be a good thing for him.

Older men always liked him--were charmed by his smile and his sense of humor and loved what he could do with his cock. They liked his smooth chest--waxed or shaved when he started to grow more body hair--and always wanted to run their hands over his back and stomach muscles as he fucked them.

He might be _good at sex work_.

It wasn’t as if he’d never done it before. He’d worked for several months as a go-go dancer when he was seventeen, and he tended to frequent the back room as much as the main floor, blowing or getting blown for thirty bucks a pop. And his now-stable mind understood that the sex he was having at that time was unhealthy. He was manic and hypersexual and coked off his ass. 

But kestrel would be something he’d do by choice. He _loved_ sex, and he was good at it, and if what Lex said was true, he could make $1,000 a month jerking his dick for gross old men over FaceTime with just the occasional in-person hookup.

The thing was, the more Ian fell in love with his job, and the more he felt that his existence actually had a purpose--that he was actually good for a thing or two--the more he wanted to do with his life. The more he wanted things that might cost money.

He wanted his own place, and he wanted good, regular, healthy sex and a car and beach vacations. He wanted to fall in love and share his life with someone and maybe have a kid or two before he died.

In his room that night, as he listened to his brothers’ deep sleep-breaths, he Googled apartment availabilities and crunched numbers, and by three o’clock, he decided that if he could make an extra $500 a month _at least_ , he could start putting a dent in the expenses of his future. He could start working toward something sustaining and _real_ \--something to keep him going on those inevitable nights when his brain started to go fucked and the darkness looked like comfort.

\---

A year later, at twenty-three and a half, Ian has a gold star by his name on kestrel, indicating he’s one of the Best of the Best on the app--or in other words, indicating he’s pleasant, efficient, and older men think he’s a great fuck.

He’s in service from seven to eleven, Monday through Saturday, spending those hours texting dudes about their cocks and performing in half-hour increments via video chat four or five times a week. He meets up for scheduled “dates” a few times a month, and in-between, has occasional Grindr hookups with guys that are significantly more appealing than his kestrel clients.

Ian’s got his own shitty little apartment that smells faintly of untreated mold and water damage but in which he can do whatever he wants without constant, annoying-but-well-meant Gallagher scrutiny. And at work, he has a few people he talks to sometimes--Ellie and Jake and his new boss, Mindy, who’s working on a master’s degree online in mental health counseling and who told Ian to come to her if he ever needed help.

For the first time since he was seventeen and a world of shit hit the fan, he feels like he’s getting somewhere, maybe. Like growth is something achievable. Possible.

But that doesn’t stop the silence.

He may feel better about his life, and he may have a savings account and over a hundred Instagram followers and the freedom to jerk off on the couch whenever he wants, but it’s quiet on Sundays when he’s off work and off the app and there’s nothing to do and no one to talk to.

It’s quiet when his clients are inactive and his night consists of getting home from work at six, baking a DiGiorno’s pizza, and eating it in its entirety while watching _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia_ for the third time. Sometimes, he takes his meds a little early on those nights, as they make him sleepy--help him pass out more quickly when he climbs in bed at ten.

There are several things he’s finally happy about in his life, but the loneliness trumps it all.

He remembers reading Jon Krakauer’s _Into the Wild_ in eleventh grade English class--one of the last academic assignments he completed before he ran off to join the Army--and one of the lines always stuck with him: _Happiness is only real when shared_.

Ian thinks about that on quiet nights. He thinks about loving someone. Having someone to talk to.

He talks to Lip about shit sometimes, but he can be an asshole, and he’s got a baby and a baby mama and a new house. Sometimes it’s hard to get a word in edgewise when Freddie’s got a new tooth and Tami’s pissed at him and his AA sponsee’s gone off the deep end.

Mostly, Ian doesn’t know if he’d get it.

He learned to hold things in when he was fourteen and lost his virginity to Roger Spikey. It wasn’t something he could just _tell_ people about--at least not then--and then there was Kash, and then there was Ned--just secrets, secrets, one after the other. 

And suddenly, he was seventeen, and he was terrified, and once he was medicated, he had to have secret emotions because fuck, it got tiring assuring everybody he was good, he was stable, when he was laughing until his face was red over a Vine compilation on YouTube and Fiona was raising her eyebrows at him like it wasn’t a completely normal thing to do.

Holding things in is just what he does. He’s used to it. It’s comfortable.

He can’t imagine talking about loneliness with Lip over Cokes and fries. He can’t imagine talking to him about his hopes and dreams for the future and his worries that they won’t ever come to fruition.

They can talk about Freddie, and they can talk about family drama and sex and their fucked up lives, but they can’t really talk about why Ian would like to one day experience love.

It’s just another thing he keeps inside on a mental list of things he’d like to do one day. Meet someone new. Have a romantic kiss. Fall in love.

Ian thinks Lip might laugh if he told him. Brush it off at first but then, eyes twinkling, try to apologize for yanking his chain and say he’ll listen, he promises. He’d try to be serious, but he wouldn’t really be because wanting to hold someone’s hand probably isn’t something normal dudes talk about with their brothers.

So he doesn’t tell him those things. He thinks about them as he sits on his window sill, smoking and listening to music, staring out over the rooftops at the Chicago skyline in the distance and hoping that things might one day fall into place even though he knows enough to know better.

\---  
\---

When Ian first started working for kestrel, he was immediately overwhelmed.

Within a week, he had been assigned nine possible clients--two Bronze, two Silver, and five Gold\--and was tasked with the responsibility of checking and approving each, introducing himself, determining their intentions for the app, and then switching back and forth between nine different characters and personalities off-and-on for a few hours each night.

He was frazzled, and he even had to keep a notepad on his kitchen table so he could remember which guy liked to be called “daddy” and which liked to be called “baby” and so he could remember to wear _red_ briefs in his cam sessions with Jeff and would be sure to oil his body for Darren, who liked him looking slick and shiny.

And then when he started getting Platinum clients, there was the added element of arranging a meeting and dealing with the fuck--sometimes pleasurable, sometimes boring, sometimes _weird_ \--all while text role playing as Dave’s optometrist, which required fucking _research_ since Ian didn’t know shit about optometry.

It _exhausted_ him. 

But just like with anything else, the more you do it, the easier it gets. By the time he’s worked with kestrel for nearly a year and a half, he can sext with four people at once with his eyes closed, has lost most of his initial shyness during cam dates, and has learned to be assertive as fuck during in-person hookups, bringing his company-issued iPad to the meeting site, going over the list of a la carte sex act purchases like they’re items on a restaurant menu, and, calm and collected, telling the guy if he tries for anything else, he’s getting charged for it or Ian won’t hesitate to impose a $300 non-compliance fee and leave him with blue balls.

He’s also learned how to cheat a bit--how to put in the least amount of effort while still raking in $980 a month after taxes.

When he was first starting out, eager to market himself, he’d contact his clients when he hadn’t heard from them in a while, would go out of his way to send them video messages or texts they didn’t ask for, and after every hookup, would try to in-person schedule another session. 

But what he learned after a few months was that these guys aren’t Southside. After Ian’s established himself as a good fuck, he doesn’t need to chase them. They’ve got money out the ass and wives and grown kids they’re sneaking around on, and they genuinely don’t care about getting their money’s worth. 

Ian figured out that he could literally never contact any of his clients except in response to their texts, requests, and appointments, and they would still stay subscribed because they’re horny old men who don’t give a fuck about a slow drain on their bank account. As long as they can watch Ian jerk off once or twice a month while their wives are having a girl’s night with friends, as long as they can send the occasional filthy text and receive an equally filthy response, they’re happy.

Ian has a gold star by his name on kestrel, and he does the bare minimum, and it doesn’t really matter because Ken still pays what shakes out to be about twenty bucks a week in Ian’s pocket for only three half-hour jerk-off sessions a month. Greg still gives Ian nearly $60 a week just to get fucked for sixteen minutes on the random and rare occasions when his wife’s out of town. It’s January, and he hasn’t heard from Tim since August, yet Ian’s consistently made $28 a month off him.

Ian has it down to a science. An art form. He knows exactly what these men want, and he knows exactly how to give it to them, and he knows exactly what he can get away with.

So when he wakes up Monday morning to a push notification on his phone-- _kestrel: (1) new client request_ \--he simply swipes open the app with bleary eyes, expecting everything to continue on as normal and for this to be another closeted fifty-plus who wants to shamefully jerk his dick to a dude.

\------------------------

 **NEW CLIENT REQUEST**  
Please read the following information. If acceptable, you may _approve_ the client. If unacceptable, you may _decline_ the client.

 **Name:** Mickey  
**Age:** 26  
**Location:** Chicago, IL

\------------------------

Ian raises an eyebrow when he sees his age.

It’s not that younger dudes _never_ use kestrel, but Ian--for better or for worse--seems to collect older men like baseball cards, the app’s algorithm, whatever it is, apparently deciding he’s grandpa-friendly. He’s always surprised when he’s assigned someone young enough to be age-appropriate.

He skims Mickey’s information--complete with the indication that he’s only purchased the Bronze Package--and slowly reads over his Swoops.

Though Ian rarely declines a client, if he’s going to, it’s because of the creepy shit they’ve Swooped.

It’s a dumb word--Swoop--but it’s essentially a list of all the character traits and personal interests a potential client favored while swiping yes or no on the fake Tinder-esque profiles they were given during registration.

\------------------------

 **Swoops:** music, movies, city, food, family, athletic, sense of humor, video games, friendly, romantic, chill, travel, connection

\------------------------

Completely innocuous. Ian’s younger potential clients tend to swipe yes on profiles featuring terms like “sexy,” “partying,” and “casual,” so it’s a welcome surprise to be assigned someone who’s into music and video games.

With a shrug, Ian accepts the client request and then climbs out of bed to get ready for work.

\---

Since Ian’s been with kestrel, the app has undergone a few upgrades to the system, giving workers a bit of a break when it comes to having them introduce themselves and explain features to their clients. Now, Ian has a tab within the app where he can input information about himself and have kestrel send out automatic introductory emails and messages.

He assumes his intro email went out to his new client while he was at work, as he has a reply when he checks his inbox on the L ride home that evening. 

\------------------------

_Hi Mickey,_

_It's nice to meet you! I'm Ian, your kestrel match. I'm 23 years old, from Chicago, and I like keeping fit, spending time with family, and meeting new people from all across the United States! Please tell me about yourself, and let me know your interests when it comes to how you hope to use this app! I'm here for you._

_-Ian_

\------------------------

_26/chicago/who cares. This is weird as fuck. Are you actually a person or a bot tryin to scam desperate assholes out of their cash?_

\------------------------

Ian’s used to receiving shit like, _54 (age is just a number LOL) & straight but not narrow!! ;-P Ready to have sum fun!_ from his Bronze clients, so his first reaction upon reading this response from Mickey is to burst out laughing.

He purses his lips and rubs a knuckle over his brow. The message is funny, but it’s also strange. What does this guy mean by _weird_? Weird like _the app_ is weird?

Ian sprawls out a bit, the seats on either side of him empty, and types a response.

\------------------------

_Mickey,_

_Congratulations on being smart. That WAS a bot, actually. Well, sort of. It's an automated message sent out whenever I've been matched with someone. This is me, though. A real boy._

\------------------------

Ian rereads Mickey’s email and, what the hell, decides to call him out. Mickey clearly doesn’t care about propriety, so why should he?

He smiles as he types.

\------------------------

_I'm curious about your “desperate assholes” comment. Are you implying that only desperate assholes use this app? ;)_

_And yeah, thanks for giving me your age and location, but I do actually care about the rest of it. If I don't know what you're into, I don't know how to be for you, and this is kind of my job, so..._

_Have a good night._

_Ian_

\------------------------

His heart gives a little kick as soon as he sends it, and he absently scratches his nails against the fabric of his black uniform pants. 

He’d assumed that because Mickey was young, was into people with a sense of humor, and because his initial response was a bit caustic, he was down for some playful teasing, but well. Ian didn’t _know_ that.

Shit.

He considers sending a follow-up, apologizing for his tone and rephrasing his questions, but before he can, Mickey’s replied.

\------------------------

 _You can cool it with the attitude._

\------------------------

Ian reads the first line and scrunches up his face, narrowing his eyes to read the rest, afraid of what it says.

\------------------------

_I don't really do this kinda thing, just saw an ad for it and thought I'd fuck around on it for a while, see what it is. Not sure what I'm into so feel free to just be whatever. Surprise me._

\------------------------

He blows out a breath. Okay. _Okay_. So maybe he didn’t fuck it up. He rereads Mickey’s email, lips curling into a small smile.

He’s new. 

Interesting. 

Ian can see this going one of two ways: he’ll be awkward but enthusiastic once he gets the hang of it, or he’ll have zero self-awareness and will be demanding as fuck.

It won’t matter that much in any case, but he still purses his lips and considers his approach. The advantage to having someone new and clueless is that Ian can do his best to be human with him at first. 

The thing about clients who’ve been around the block a few times and who already know exactly what they’re doing and how they want to do it is that Ian really doesn’t matter at all to them. He’s just a body with a dick who’s there to provide a service.

The new guys, though--and Ian’s had a few--are a little more into slowly developing their fantasies, are open to Ian’s suggestions, and are generally pretty cool with letting Ian lead in ways he doesn’t often get to with more experienced clients.

He likes having that control when he can get it.

Ian taps _reply_ and begins to type.

\------------------------

_Mickey,_

_Most people like to personalize their experience as much as possible. Maybe I can give you some options? Dom/sub? Boy next door? Daddy stuff? Boss/secretary? I'm okay with most RP, but I don't do rape, animals, or underage, and I don't love humiliation or pain play, though I'm willing to negotiate depending on the client's specific interests._

_I'd be happy to surprise you, but everybody's different, and I don't want to press the wrong buttons by accident. Hazards of the job._

_No sarcasm or attitude, huh? Noted. Sorry about that, by the way._

_Night._

_Ian_

\------------------------

He taps _send_ just as the train is slowing to a stop at 47th, and he shoves his phone in his pocket and grabs his shoulder-bag.

It’s a ten minute walk to his apartment building. It isn’t exactly safe, but Ian loves walking in the dark--has loved it since he was a kid, making his way home after closing at the Kash and Grab. 

He loves the drunks milling about--the happy ones stumbling out of bars hooting and laughing, the grumpy ones shoving each other on the sidewalk. He loves the smell of restaurants’ dinner menus cooking and the bass of rap music thumping in cars idling at stop lights. He loves the street lights illuminating the darkness in orange, glowing circles as far down the street as he can see and the strings of rainbow Christmas lights still strung up outside of businesses.

When he was a kid, he used to meander home dreamily, thinking about Kash and about sex, his cheeks still arousal-warm and his back beneath his T-shirt still cold from the freezer.

It was fucked up, probably. Almost nine years later, Ian smokes a cigarette thinking about it. It feels like a lifetime ago, and it kind of was; it was the life before he was seventeen.

When he imagines it--imagines himself as the little fifteen-year-old in the freezer with a thirty-year-old man--it feels like some other kid, the experience like a story your friend tells you about the weird shit that happened to them when they were younger.

He’s not that kid, anymore--the one with military-themed posters over his bed, novelty T-shirts under flannel, and dusty sneakers. The one who hoped for things. He hasn’t been in years.

Ian finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt onto the sidewalk, watching as it smolders to a puff of smoke on contact with a puddle.

\---

Lip texts him just as he reaches his block.

\------------------------

 **Lip (8:29 PM):** Hey, you home?

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** On my way. 

\------------------------

He finds him standing in front of his building, gently moving Freddie’s stroller back and forth in a rocking motion and shushing his cries.

“Jesus, Lip, what’d you do to the kid?” Ian asks as he approaches, a grin on his face. He sets down his bag and gives his brother a quick hug.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up and order a pizza.”

After calling for the pizza, they enter the building and struggle their way up the rickety stairwell, Ian carrying Freddie and Lip carrying the stroller.

“He’s teething,” Lip tells him as Ian keys them into his apartment. “He won’t sleep. Just cries for hours and hours. Got the shits like you wouldn’t believe.”

“So you decided to grace me with the poop monster?” Ian asks in a silly voice, holding Freddie up with his hands hooked under his armpits and scrunching his nose at the ridiculous smell emanating from such a tiny little guy. He gives him a kiss on his head.

“Tami needed a break.”

“You mean you needed to get outta the house before she cut your dick off, right?”

Lip grins and toys with the vape pen clutched in his fist.

\---

Lip changes Freddie’s diaper while Ian pulls on black joggers and a blue T-shirt, and when the pizza comes, they devour it while watching _My Feet are Killing Me_. 

Ian’s phone lights up on the coffee table between them mid-way through, and he doesn’t have a chance to grab it before Lip sees the banner notification-- _kestrel: (1) new client email_.

“Client?”

“Shut up.” Ian picks up his phone, clicks off the screen, and sets it on the couch cushion on the other side of him.

Lip raises an eyebrow, an amused expression on his face. “You have clients?”

“It’s nothing.”

“This like some EMT shit?”

Ian shoves half a pizza slice in his mouth and, with his mouth full, says, “It’s just something I do on the side. It’s a long story.”

He chews as much as he can and then washes the massive bite down with a sip of Red Bull. Lip’s staring at him, he can tell. Ian turns to eye him back.

“No, you’re not,” Lip says, incredulous, laughter in his voice. “Are you fuckin’ dudes for money?”

“Shut up.”

“What’s kestrel?”

Ian burps, lips pressed to his fist, and grabs the Red Bull can before falling back onto the couch cushions. “You can’t tell a fucking _soul_ ,” he warns, pointing the can at him.

Lip holds up both hands in agreement. He grins. “You’re fuckin’ dudes for money.”

“Jesus Christ. Yeah? Sorta?” Ian takes a slurping sip off his Red Bull and shrugs. “I work for an app, and I basically like, chat and video with clients or fuck ‘em if they pay enough. It’s this subscription-based thing.”

Lip looks a cross between stunned and like he wants to laugh. “Are you--”

“ _Yes_ , I’m takin’ my fuckin’ meds.”

“Not actually what I was gonna ask, but good to know.” Lip grabs his own can of Red Bull and leans back on the couch beside Ian. “You making any money off that shit?”

“Almost a thousand a month.”

“Holy _shit_.” Lip chuckles and takes a drink. “Fuck. Maybe I should try givin’ it to dudes for cash.”

“Your dick’s too small.” Ian elbows him. “Might be able to take it, though.”

Lip elbows him back. “Sex any good?”

Ian shrugs. “ _Eh_. Sometimes.” He leans forward, snatches the last piece of pizza even though he’s full, and takes a bite. “But y’know, it’s the _even bad sex is good sex_ kinda thing.”

“Shit.” Lip chuckles again before draining the rest of his energy drink.

Freddie gives a little whine from his stroller then, thank God, and Ian jumps up to get him. 

“You can’t tell anybody,” he reminds, scooping up the baby and cuddling him against his chest. “Especially not Fiona.”

“When have I ever told your secrets?”

Ian stares at his brother for a moment, bounces Freddie gently, trying to soothe the beginnings of his next crying fit, and nods. 

He hasn’t.

\---  
\---

Lip and Freddie leave just after eleven, and Ian shuts everything down for the night and climbs in bed.

He takes out his phone just before he goes to sleep and checks his kestrel inbox. He has a reply from Mickey, sent just minutes after Ian’s last email on the L.

\------------------------  


_You just do you man. I dunno, I like regular stuff or whatever, none of that freaky shit. I'm kinda new I guess._

_I don't actually care about the sarcasm so you can just be normal if you want, whatever that is for you._

_How would somebody send an email to an animal??_

_See ya._

\------------------------

Ian smiles at that last question. How, indeed.

\---

He waits until the next day to respond, not wanting to give Mickey the impression that he’s always available for relatively quick responses.

He’d be lying, though, if he said he didn’t think about Mickey’s request whenever he had a spare moment. 

_Be normal_. What a weird request. Ian’s used to his clients settling on an RP option or at least giving him a fantasy to work with. He’s not even sure if he knows how to be himself with clients. Isn’t it a little awkward to do sex stuff with a veritable stranger without being in character?

He’s never been asked to do that before, and he’s honestly a little daunted by the thought.

It is sweet, though, Ian thinks. Something about Mickey’s email seems innocent--his newness awfully endearing. He wonders what he looks like.

Ian finally replies during his lunch break at work, and he types out the email with his right hand while he holds half a Subway steak & cheese in his left.

\------------------------

_Mickey,_

_Cool. Thanks for letting me know. I have to be honest: I'm not really used to being myself on here, but I'll try. :)_

\------------------------

Ian pauses for a moment, considers rephrasing it to something a little less committed to the idea, but changes his mind.

\------------------------

_One more thing I do need to ask. Could you tell me what you mean by “regular stuff”? Do you mean like regular sex stuff or regular romance stuff? And what does that entail for you? I'll do the best I can to be accommodating._

_And about the animal thing... You ask the wrong question. The right question is “How would an animal respond to an email?” And the answer is mortifying. It's also the reason I almost quit this job after my first week._

_Ian_

\------------------------

Ian huffs a laugh at the memory, thinking about the weird dude who’d begged for them to role play as anthropomorphic _lions_. Being new to the app and eager to do a good job, he’d gone with it, and it was legitimately something he wanted to bleach his brain over. He had to research fucking _lion mating practices_ , and he did it on Incognito mode in hopes that no one would ever find out.

It was all for nothing, too. After the email exchanges, the guy had written, _u suck at this_ and unsubbed, and Ian had received a rating and review email the next morning with all one stars.

Good riddance. Sometimes it didn’t suck to suck.

He’d told Lip about it the night before during what eventually turned into a Q&A session once Freddie settled down, and his brother had about lost his shit laughing.

Ian had woken that morning to a text from him that just said _Simba_ , and he'd sent him back a middle finger emoji.

For a second, he considers following up his email by telling Mickey the story, if only because he’s only been able to tell _one_ other person in his entire life about it and he thinks it’s fucking hysterical, but he changes his mind.

He quite literally doesn’t know this guy, and the last thing he wants to do is get friendly with a newbie who could turn out to be his worst nightmare.

Ian puts his phone away and takes a huge bite of his sandwich, and when he looks up, he sees that Ellie’s looking at him from across the break room table.

“What?” he asks, mouth full.

She smirks at him and bounces what she calls her “Instagram brows.” “Whatcha smiling at? Are you texting a _boooooooy_?”

“None of your business.”

“What’s his name?”

“I didn’t say I was texting a boy.”

Ellie opens up her mini bag of Baked Lays, plucks out a chip, her sparkly pink nails gleaming in the garish overhead lights, and takes an intentionally loud, crunching bite. “You gonna invite me to your wedding?”

Ian narrows his eyes at her.

“I invited you to mine and you didn’t come.”

“I hardly knew you.”

“You knew me _enough_.”

Ian rolls his eyes and smiles at her.

Ellie Sanchez looks like she’d have a role as the stereotypical Snotty, Popular Girl on a CW teen show. She styles her long, dark brown hair every morning, puts on a full face of makeup, and wears baby pink Adidas with her EMT uniform. 

She’s entirely smart and cool, and Ian thinks they’d be good friends if she wasn’t married with a kid.

That seems like a fucked up thing to think, but Ellie picks up her two-year-old from daycare in her SUV after work and goes home to cook dinner for her bank teller husband. Ian stays at work as long as he can and takes the L back to the Southside to eat take-out on his couch by himself and sext guys he doesn’t know. 

They don’t really have a lot in common besides their job and sense of humor, and forming strong adult friendships with married people has always been weird for him. Their lives are so very different from his that he always feels a bit out of place in their world.

He likes her, though, and she’s fun to hang out with at work.

Ian glances at his phone one last time before they dump their trash together and head off to do a rig check.

\---  
\---

Mickey doesn’t reply to Ian’s email until nearly eight. 

Ian’s eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos on the Gallagher couch, watching a bootleg of the _The Grudge_ remake with Carl and Liam.

\------------------------

_I dunno what I mean by it, just normal stuff I guess. How regular people bang, not like some porno shit. This is fuckin weird man. I don't know why you gotta know this._

_You say you don't really act like yourself on here. Do people just like pay you to tell them you wanna spank them?_

\------------------------

Ian rubs the red powder on the leg of his jeans without thinking and lowers his eyebrows.

There’s a bit of dickishness in the first paragraph, he thinks, though the second is friendly enough.

Deciding to go with friendly, chalking the dickishness up to the difficulty of conveying tone through text, Ian replies.

\------------------------

_Hi Mickey,_

_Sorry if my questions seem too personal. I mean, this is sort of a professional relationship app, so there are things I should know so I can do my job effectively. The client has the power to control their experience with me, and to do that, they have to tell me what they like. From your email, I get the impression that you prefer a more traditional, vanilla experience. Awesome. Thanks for telling me! Remember: you're in control of the story here, so feel free to let me know at any point if you want to change things up or try something new._

\------------------------

“Who the hell are you texting?” Carl asks, trying to lean over to read his phone screen.

Ian deposits the Cheetos bag in his lap, effectively distracting him, and stands to move into the kitchen.

\------------------------

_People like what they like, and people like different things. So yeah, sometimes people pay me to tell them that I want to spank them. People also pay me to pretend to be a gardener who wants to trim their hedges or a doctor unconventionally treating a patient with a persistent erection. As long as it's safe, sane, and consensual, I'm cool with most of it. But that's what I meant by being a little inexperienced with being myself on here. It happens—some guys just want the boyfriend experience—but even with that, I play it up a little. You kind of have to in this line of work._

\------------------------

Ian’s _never_ this candid, typically preferring to play up the role, but Mickey’d asked him to be himself. There’s no role to play.

He rereads what he’s written so far before continuing.

\------------------------

_So are you good with getting started? Do you want to tell me about yourself?_

_Like I said in my automated email—I'm into fitness. Not obsessively, but it's important to me to keep in shape, so I try to stay active. But I like to be lazy sometimes, too, and can spend a Saturday sleeping and watching Netflix. I have a big family with a ton of siblings, and I see them when I can. When it comes to my looks, I'm like 6 ft and relatively toned/athletic. I'm a ginger, so I can get pretty freckly when I've been in the sun, but I'm pale always._

_What about you?_

_Ian_

\------------------------

It’s always risky telling his Bronze Package clients he’s a ginger. Some guys just aren’t into the red-hair-and-freckles thing, and with so few famous people to be compared to, he always worries about which of the ten well-known gingers the client’s going to imagine.

For the most part, Ian likes the way he looks. He has a good body, a great cock, and a decent face, and he’s yet to exchange pictures with a guy on the app and have them not like what they saw.

But Bronze clients are different. With no photo exchange capabilities, Ian doesn’t know if Mickey’s about to picture him as Carrot Top or Prince Harry.

He blows out a slow breath when Mickey replies immediately and doesn’t comment on it.

\------------------------

_I don't know man. I'm not really good with talking about myself. I don't care about staying active or whatever but I guess I'm in ok shape. I have black hair and blue eyes. I like music and watching stuff on TV sometimes._

_How does this work again?_

\------------------------

Ian leans back against the sink and smiles.

\------------------------

_Thanks, Mickey!_

_You tell me. We can email about whatever you want. Most clients who are looking to get steamy start it off, or tell me to, and we sort of go back and forth from there. But I'm still not sure what you're looking for? Are your intentions primarily sexual, or is there something else you'd prefer to focus on?_

_Let me know._

_Ian_

\------------------------

_Jesus Christ, you sound like a shrink. Stop being so formal. I don't fuckin know what I wanna focus on. I don't do this kinda shit._

_Not really into the email sex thing right now I guess, it's too weird._

\------------------------

Damn.

Ian grabs the Sunny D jug from the fridge, uncaps it, and takes a drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Okay, yeah. Maybe Mickey _is_ a bit of a dick. Ian’s literally just doing his job, here. He can lay off his ass.

\------------------------

_Baby steps. Okay._

_It's cool that you don't do this but like... Why'd you sign up?_

_Ian_

\------------------------

And he didn’t think it was a rude thing to ask. He would never have asked it a year ago, instead doing everything he could to keep the client, but it’s a fair question. 

kestrel isn’t exactly an app for making friends. It’s quite literally a sex app. In the Apple Store description, it’s described as an “Intimate Encounters Service,” so why’s Mickey acting awkward and pissy over sharing his sexual interests?

\------------------------

_Just kinda fuckin around man. Bored._

\------------------------

Who “fucks around” and pays $10.99 to badly use an app due to boredom?

\------------------------

_You said that before, but I don't really know what you mean. I'm not sure I've ever signed up for a paid subscription service for the hell of it and then expressed very little interest in actually utilizing the service._

\------------------------

_Chill your tits. I don't really know what you want me to tell you. I signed up cuz I was bored. Like I said I don't know what I'm doing on here._

\------------------------

Ian takes another drink of Sunny D and closes his eyes. He needs to reign it in a little before Mickey cancels and leaves him a bad review.

\------------------------

_It's fine. I'm just sort of tasked with entertaining you, and you don't seem to want to be entertained? And this isn't about the sex thing. I've told you—it's rare, but I've had clients who just wanted me to write sweet, relationship-y things to them. That's cool. But I literally don't know what you want from me, and I'm getting paid to make sure you get what you want, so…_

\------------------------

_You just let me worry about whether I'm entertained or not, Gladiator. Probably gonna cancel on Friday anyway. This fuckin blows._

\------------------------

What a dick. Jesus Christ.

Ian’s pissed, but he’s more confused than that. What the hell is this dude’s problem? Ian’s one fucking job is to build Mickey’s fantasy--it’s in the goddamn rules handbook--and he’s giving him nothing but attitude.

He puts the Sunny D back in the fridge and leans over the counter to type his response.

\------------------------

_Great._

_Enjoy your night._

_Ian_

\------------------------

With an annoyed huff, Ian closes out of kestrel and pockets his phone. 

Prick.

He heads back into the living room and drops down on the couch.

“What’s wrong with you?” Liam asks from the recliner, eyebrows raised.

Ian takes the Cheetos bag back from Carl and sighs. “Nothing.”

\---

It isn’t until he’s in bed that night, rereading his conversation with Mickey, that he thinks about the fact that Mickey’s most definitely gonna cancel and leave him a bad review.

And it sounds like a stupid thing to be worried about because Ian’s completely in the right, here. Mickey was being an asshole for absolutely no reason, and Ian wasn’t gonna just take it. He doesn’t do that shit anymore.

But he’s got the fucking gold star by his name, and that means a 4.8 rating or higher, which is a rarity. And it’s partly because of that star that he’s allowed a heavier client load and performance bonuses, both of those things contributing a couple hundred dollars to his monthly salary.

Fuck.

Fucking Mickey.

Ian can’t sleep, his brain powering through even the meds-induced drowsiness.

He opens up the Google app and does the dumbest search of his life: “Mickey+Chicago.” It’s literally all Mickey Mouse, the contemporary art gallery, and Mickey’s Drive-In.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting.

With a sigh, he puts his phone on the charger and pulls the blankets over his head, hoping the absolute darkness will lull him to sleep.

\---  
\---

Ian’s off the next day, and he spends it buying underwear and snacks at Target and then trying to beat his pull-up record on the bar above his bedroom door.

By six, when he’s eating from a bucket of KFC he’d had delivered by Uber Eats, he’s really fucking tired of randomly thinking about stupid Mickey and his stupid cancellation and the stupid bad review he’ll inevitably leave.

He wipes his greasy fingers off on a napkin and grabs his phone to type a stupid apology email.

\------------------------

_Hi Mickey,_

_I just wanted to apologize for the tone of my emails last night. I guess I should have been more understanding and, rather than being so short, should have asked you more about why you had such a negative experience with the app._

_I also should have been a little less pushy in general and should have been more empathetic about the fact that this is clearly your first time doing something like this. Not everybody's ready to jump into it from the start, and though it's not what I'm used to, I should have been a little gentler with introducing you to the way it works. My job is to be what you need, and reading back over my emails, I clearly wasn't._

_Thanks for downloading kestrel. I know you said you would probably cancel on Friday, but I can send you a link for a more immediate cancellation that will allow you to be refunded for the remaining days in the cycle. Let me know if you're interested._

_Ian_

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply to him until just past 10:30, after Ian had spent four and a half hours obsessively checking his phone for a client cancellation notification.

\------------------------

_Yeah yeah, chill. I'm not gonna leave you a bad review in the app store so you can save the apologies._

\------------------------

Holy shit.

Ian briefly reconsiders his belief in mind-reading.

\------------------------

_I was being kind of a dick to you for no reason. But I was being real when I said I don't know what I want out of this and that I'm kinda new to the whole thing. I thought I wanted one thing when I bought the stupid subscription but I don't really know if I'm all that comfortable with it, at least yet. And like I know this is a fuckin sex app so I'm sorta wondering why I'm doing this if I don't really wanna do all the sex stuff right now._

_I'm not good at getting my thoughts out or anything and I was always shit at English in school so my writing sucks, but I did want to say sorry or whatever._

_Mickey_

\------------------------

Ian had been rewatching season 1 of _Sex Education_ in preparation for season 2, all the while texting Bobby about how he was “jerking off” to the pictures he was sending him of his shrimp dick.

He pauses Netflix and rereads Mickey’s email.

And he can’t help the smile that blooms on his lips when he reads the last paragraph.

He may not know Mickey at all, and he may have no idea what he looks like or what he’s like in real life, but he seems sort of cute to Ian in an entirely frustrating way.

Ian thinks Mickey might be secretly sweet.

It’s a stupid thing to think, as he literally has nothing to go on besides a few emails--half in which Mickey was being a cranky ass--but something hits Ian with that last paragraph.

_I’m not good at getting my thoughts out._

He purses his lips and considers replying right away, but Bobby’s being needy as hell, apparently bent on using every second of the twenty-five minutes left of Ian’s work hours, and he can’t concentrate.

\------------------------

 **Bobby (10:37 PM):** u like my fat cock

 **Bobby (10:37 PM):** its big n hard just 4 u

\------------------------

Ian scrolls up through their texts and looks at the picture again. 

Honestly, it’s three inches long rock-hard.

He sighs and types.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:38 PM):** I love your fat cock. So huge. You’re gonna make me cum!

 **Bobby (10:38 PM):** cum bby plz 4 me

 **Ian (10:39 PM):** Fuck! I’m cumming, baby.

\------------------------

He snorts when he sends it and, figuring he needs to seem a little more enthused and aroused, throws his grammar out the window.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:39 PM):** fuck im gonna cum bobby fuck fuck

 **Ian (10:39 PM):** my dick is so hard

 **Ian (10:39 PM):** its dripping

 **Bobby (10:40 PM):** fuck bby ur making me cum

 **Ian (10:40 PM):** fuck!!!!

\------------------------

Ian bursts out laughing when he types a final semblance of an iPhone keysmash, _sdfasldafawejf_ , and starts back up the episode of _Sex Education_.

\---  
\---

He reads Mickey’s email a couple more times the next morning after his run, then once more when he’s eating a bowl of cereal for lunch at the Gallagher house, babysitting Franny while Debbie runs some kind of scam with her friend Farhad. 

While Franny’s occupied with her Kid Cuisine, Ian types out a reply.

\------------------------

_Hey,_

_Thanks for your reply. I've got to be honest: you're really different from my usual clientele. I know you don't want me to be all soft, but I just want to say that it's all cool with me, and I really want to respect your boundaries, so please tell me when I'm not._

\------------------------

He was pissed at Mickey for a good twenty-four hours before he read his most recent email, but he has to admit that he feels a bit of gentleness toward him now.

And if someone had put a gun to his head and asked him what did it, it’d have to be that _I’m not good at getting my thoughts out._

What an entirely random and unremarkable thing.

\------------------------

_I also want to say that it's fine to not know what you want yet. But if you want to keep the app, maybe we could just talk about random topics? We could start over with a mutual understanding that this isn't a sex thing, at least not now, and go from there?_

_You didn't seem super comfortable telling me about yourself, which is fine, but maybe you could tell me about your day?_

_Ian_

\------------------------

“Uncle Ian,” Franny says.

He looks up and sees she’s got chocolate pudding all over her mouth.

“What’s up, Fran?” He grabs a napkin and wipes off her face.

“Uncle Carl says you like boys,” she says, pronouncing all her l’s in such a way that it sounds like _Unca Caw says you wike boys._

Ian wasn’t planning to have this conversation today, but he shrugs and nods. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you gonna marry a boy?” Same with the r’s: _Aw you gonna mawwy a boy?_

Ian huffs a laugh and picks up his cereal bowl to drink back the milk. “I dunno, Fran. I need a boyfriend first.”

Franny looks stumped at that. She responds by picking up her spoon, scooping out more pudding, and taking a huge bite that gets chocolate all over her mouth again.

\---  
\---

Ian’s back home and just out of the shower when Mickey replies.

\------------------------

_Yeah whatever, softy._

\------------------------

He’s already smiling after the first line.

\------------------------

_Talking about my day's never gonna be riveting, but ok. I do security stuff. It's mostly kinda boring but it passes the time I guess, and the hours are good. Off on weekends and mostly free at night unless I'm doing overtime. So anyway, today I worked til 5 and came home. Made dinner and that's about it. It's pretty much my everyday thing so like I said, not riveting. I guess that's what you wanted to know??_

\------------------------

Ian bursts out laughing when he reads the rest. He stretches out on his bed, dressed only in boxers, hair damp and getting his pillow wet, and reads it twice more.

There’s something sweet about the way this guy acts like a kid being forced to share what he did over the summer in front of his English class.

\------------------------

_Hi Mickey,_

_Security, huh? Good to know you're out there keeping the citizens of this great city safe and secure. ;) Sorry your day was boring, but I'm sure you've got cool things happening sometimes._

\------------------------

He considers telling Mickey about babysitting his niece but figures that’d be too weird and personal for now.

\------------------------

_My day was a little boring, too. Not much going on._

_Ian_

\------------------------

Neither of them have done a great job of keeping the conversation going. Ian scratches at his belly, reads their last few emails again, and considers asking a follow-up question.

But before he’s able to do it, Mickey replies with one of his own.

\------------------------

_Got any interesting clients with weird fetishes?_

\------------------------

Ian smiles at his phone screen and considers. How much is okay to tell him? 

He’s definitely not supposed to discuss other clients, but maybe he can discuss _former_ clients? And maybe he can be vague enough that it won’t even count as sharing client information.

\------------------------

_Nothing as extreme as the guy last month wanting me to role play as Twilight Sparkle from My Little Pony. And that ain't even the animal dude I referenced earlier._

\------------------------

When they both dropped the salutation at the start of their emails, Ian knew they were maybe settling in to email for a bit. Little did he know, however, that by the end of the night, their email thread would be 77 messages deep.

\------------------------

_Did ya do it?_

\------------------------

_We had a long argument about whether, because Twilight Sparkle can verbalize her consent, Brony stuff violates my “no animals” rule. So long, in fact, that the guy lost interest. My job there was done._

\------------------------

_Win for you. Creepy ass people._

\------------------------

After talking about _The My Little Pony Incident_, they talk mostly about the specifics of Ian’s job, and it’s surprisingly fun. Ian tells Mickey about how the app works on his end of things, including client selection and payment. 

And the conversation stays pretty clinical and a little stiff, even, until Mickey asks him the same question Lip had asked a few nights before over spoonfuls of Butter Pecan ice cream straight from the container. 

\------------------------ 

_So are your old married clients sneaking around on their wives or what_

\------------------------ 

Ian raises an eyebrow at that and takes a moment to contemplate his answer. Cautious.

\------------------------

_Some are, some aren’t. You’d be surprised how many women don’t care that their old, rich husband’s gay._

\------------------------ 

_Definitely wouldn’t be surprised man_

\------------------------ 

Ian isn’t _super_ comfortable talking about his clients, still, so he attempts to shift the direction of their conversation as he gets off the bed and makes his way into the kitchen to heat up some dinner. 

\------------------------ 

_So which are you?_

\------------------------ 

He takes a Tai Pei General Tso’s Chicken from the freezer and preps it for the microwave. 

\------------------------ 

_???_

\------------------------ 

_Does your wife know?_

\------------------------ 

Mickey doesn’t respond for several minutes, and as Ian watches his dinner spin in the microwave from where he’s perched on the kitchen counter, he gets a little worried he overstepped with his humor. 

Fuck. 

He types out, _Sorry! I was joking_ , but before he can tap _send_ , an email comes in. 

\------------------------ 

_You callin me gay_

\------------------------ 

Now Ian’s just confused. He hops down off the counter, gets his food out of the microwave, and works on scooping it out onto a plate. 

Once he’s made his way, plate and Pom in hand, to the couch, he sets everything up on the coffee table. 

\------------------------ 

_You do know I’m a guy, right?_

\------------------------ 

_So?_

\------------------------ 

_This is a sex app?_

\------------------------ 

Mickey doesn’t reply for five whole minutes, and Ian’s suddenly extremely worried. His food burns his tongue because he scarfs it down to give him something to do while he waits, and he has to chug half his Pom to cool down his mouth. 

Finally, Mickey replies just as Ian’s about to send him a paragraph-long email asking him what the hell’s happening. 

\------------------------ 

_I’m fuckin with you man_

\------------------------ 

Jesus Christ. Ian clicks off his phone screen and drinks the rest of his Pom. 

He waits several minutes, hoping to make Mickey sweat a little, before replying. 

\------------------------ 

_Me too._

\------------------------ 

_Yeah, ok_

\------------------------ 

Ian’s maybe a little embarrassed, though he didn’t _actually_ fall for it. Of course not. He was confused more than anything, and he starts to tell Mickey that, even typing out the first couple of sentences before realizing he actually has a more important question to ask. 

\------------------------ 

_It’s definitely not any of my business, so please don’t feel obligated to answer, but are you actually married?_

\------------------------ 

_Yeah_

\------------------------ 

_Cool._

\------------------------ 

_2 kids_

\------------------------ 

_Oh yeah? That’s awesome._

\------------------------ 

Ian stretches out on the couch and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. It’s not like he gives a fuck in the grand scheme of things, as he’s just the escort, but in general, he feels kind of shitty for being part of the cheating experience within a marriage--especially if there are kids involved. 

Mickey doesn’t respond to his last email for several minutes, so Ian sends a follow-up because he’s actually really curious. 

\------------------------ 

_Do they know about this, or are you on the down-low?_

\------------------------ 

Mickey still doesn’t respond, and it’s for a long enough period of time that Ian has the opportunity to make himself coffee with way too much White Chocolate Raspberry creamer and trudge back to the couch. 

And when he does, Ian wants to smack him. 

\------------------------ 

_Still fuckin with you_

\------------------------ 

He blows out a breath. 

He considers calling him a dick, and if they were texting, he might send the middle finger emoji, but as it stands, he simply sits on it for a bit before replying with 

\------------------------ 

_So you’re not married?_

\------------------------ 

_Fuck no! I’d rather be dead_

\------------------------ 

_Wow. Okay. Cool._

\------------------------ 

That was passionate. 

Ian pulls his legs up and criss-crosses them on the couch as he slurps at his too-sweet coffee. 

What a damn night. 

The conversation circles back around to Ian and how little money he makes off of Bronze Package clients. Mickey gets awkward about it the more they talk about the fact that Ian’s only getting $3 in his pocket off him per week after taxes. 

It’s endearing, sort of, and Ian finds himself smiling when Mickey sends his last several messages as the time inches toward 11:00. 

\------------------------ 

_Congratulations, you just earned 43 cents man_

\------------------------ 

_It’s really okay. I’ve done worse for free._

\------------------------ 

_Don't seem fair_

\------------------------ 

_Not much is. My tip jar usually makes up for it, though. ;)_

__

__

_(I'm joking... You're absolutely not obligated, especially after I was rude the other day.)_

\------------------------ 

_Whatever man. Still not gonna write you a bad review_

\------------------------ 

_How'd you know I was legit worried about that?_

\------------------------ 

_Seems like that kinda thing would be an easy way for a client to bust your balls if they wanted to_

\------------------------ 

_Yeah, it would be. If they wanted to._

\------------------------ 

_Not a snitch_

\------------------------ 

_Good to know._

\------------------------ 

No one emails for several minutes. Ian glances at the time on his phone and sees it's 11:01. He's technically off the clock.

He taps the pads of his thumbs against the phone screen and considers what he wants to say. He should go, but he hasn't exactly hated this. Beats pretending to jizz his shorts over Bobby, anyway.

Ian types out, _So what kind of music do you like?_ , but Mickey's responded before he can send it. 

\------------------------ 

_Ok, well I’m gonna go_

\------------------------ 

Ian deletes the draft.

\------------------------ 

_Cool. Have a good night, Mickey._

\------------------------ 

_Ok, see ya_

\------------------------ 

Ian grins at Mickey’s repeated _ok_ and his complete lack of return on the _goodnight_ sentiment. He clicks off the phone screen. 

Mickey’s an odd guy--awkward, maybe--and Ian’s not sure if he’s got him figured out. They'd talked for a while tonight, off-and-on in little snatches of mostly kestrel-related conversation, and, aside from learning Mickey's probably not as bad as Ian thought the day before, he doesn’t know much else other than that there’s a lot more to uncover. 

Ian works the next day, so he gets up off the couch and starts getting ready for bed. 

And it’s as he’s got his toothbrush held in his mouth and is spreading Clean & Clear Spot Treatment on a pimple on his chin--truly at his sexiest--that his phone lights up with a final notification-- _kestrel: (1) new client email_. 

He finishes up in the bathroom, and it’s not until he’s lying in bed that he swipes open the app and pulls up his inbox. 

\------------------------ 

_Goodnight, by the way_

\------------------------ 

Mickey'd sent the email nearly fifteen minutes after his last, and something about it gets to Ian. He stretches out under the covers and spends a while scrolling through their messages, smiling in the darkness. 

Something's intriguing about this guy.

Ian may not be sure he knows how to be himself on an app in which he makes money by pretending to be a fantasy, but as he reaches their final email, that _Goodnight, by the way_ , he thinks he's sure as hell going to try. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 1  
> -The title comes from the song “When We First Met” by Alex Di Leo, which I found after literal hours of sampling songs on Spotify to see if I could find one to fit this fic. Specifically, it comes from the following lyrics, which are extremely appropriate for this story and serve as a preview of things to come:  
>  __
> 
> ...  
> Your heart is so good for me  
> I don't ever want to let go  
> I just want to hold you in my arms  
> Oh, oh forever  
> …  
> The more I’m around you  
> Things they just seem so beautiful  
> I want more  
> I adore  
>  **Everything about you**  
>  I just wanna hold your hand
> 
>   
> -”Ken” is The Come Guy from LRPD, “Greg” is The Dentist (Ian’s regular Platinum client), and “Bobby” is...Bobby. From Chapter 17. I’m going to add his description to Chapter 6 of LRPD where I discuss the other regulars. I was originally going to have him be The Panties Guy, but he’s too annoying, and I really like the idea of Ian having nicknames for all his clients but this dude. It makes me laugh.
> 
> -It’s currently early January 2020 in the timeline, hence the pre-season 2 _Sex Education_ rewatch. Speaking of, I originally had Ian pausing Netflix by accident on the frame of Ruby's vulva and being completely terrified for a second, but I decided to cut it because there was just too much going on. However! Just FYI: Ian's watching 1x05. "It's my vagina!"
> 
> -I will be making minor modifications to LRPD as I write. For example: Ian was originally supposed to have worked the day I have him babysitting Franny in EAY. Rather than cutting the Franny scene--because I want it in for _reasons_ \--I just reworded a couple things in LRPD. 
> 
> -I _love_ the character of Sue on the show, but I did decide to replace her with Ellie because I wanted Ian to have a friend his age at work, and I’m really bad at juggling multiple distinct secondary characters in one setting while feeling like they each have a separate purpose.
> 
> -Ian's about to fall in love so hard he's not gonna know what to do with himself. It's so strange being back to square one with them, but I'm excited to explore Ian's journey experiencing real love and romance for the first time. 🥺️
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! <33 I love you all, and I hope you get into it! 
> 
> I’ll try to update again before the end of August. See you then!
> 
> Gray


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making friends is hard to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the foundation’s rocky but they ain’t gonna fall.
> 
> Thank you so much for the love and support for Chapter One! I hope you enjoy this one! 
> 
> **Warnings for EAY Chapter 2:** depictions of bipolar disorder, therapy sessions, negative self-talk and low self-esteem, casual uses of ableist language, inexplicit depiction of Ian with a Platinum client (nothing graphic or descriptive at all), degrading language (brief)

Shortly after his diagnosis, Fiona begged him to start regular therapy at the clinic. 

Ian had outright refused, not wanting a single thing added to his list of Evidence of Insanity that was already building every day--every time he picked up his prescription, slept away the hours, and still, even though he was chock full of meds, sometimes wanted to burrow into the dark space under his bed, sometimes felt like his muscles were covered with ants, itching, brain racing, can’t sit still, can’t stop thinking, can’t stop moving, can’t _stop_.

What was a therapist supposed to tell him about anything? How were they supposed to help mitigate the life sentence he’d been given along with six pills a day and a five-letter word--capitol C, Crazy--that bounced around in his head every minute of the day, that was in the eyes of everyone who knew, every time they looked at him?

He didn’t go to therapy. 

Fiona went with him to the clinic for his monthly, then bi-monthly, then quarterly check-ups. He took his pills like a Good Little Patient, and he watched his alcohol and weed intake, and still, he ended up on that goddamn bridge on the night of his twenty-first birthday because he was well and truly fucked: fucked up, fucked in the head, fucking hopeless.

\---

It was his boss, Mindy, who talked him into it in the end.

He was twenty-two, and they were sharing the cab of the ambulance on their way back from a transport call when she first brought it up.

Mindy was the ultimate no-nonsense, “health is wealth,” _do everything you can to be better every day_ type, and she’d been working for the past year on a master’s degree in mental health counseling. 

And not that Ian was a deliberate asshole, but he couldn’t help but think the whole concept of _talking about your issues_ with a trained professional was at least a little bit bullshit. 

“Everybody needs to go to counseling or therapy,” Mindy claimed that day, adjusting herself on the bench seat. She tended to _preen_ when she felt confident, and Ian gave her an eye-roll.

“I’ve _been_ to therapy, Mindy. They just ask me a bunch of invasive questions and adjust my meds.”

“You haven’t been to _therapy_. You see a rotating psychiatrist at the clinic for twenty minutes, four times a year.”

Ian shrugged and flipped the turn signal. He checked the mirrors and then slowly switched lanes. “Don’t matter. What’s somebody who read a fuckin’ book supposed to tell me about a thing I’ve actually gotta live with?”

“It’s not like that, Ian.” Mindy pulled her phone off her belt-clip and started tapping around. “Going to therapy helps keep your mental health in check. A good therapist’ll ask you questions but not just so they can find out whether your meds are working. They wanna help you understand why you feel the way you feel. Teach you how to keep yourself in the good spots and how to avoid the bad ones or work through them if you can’t.”

Ian feels a vibration in his pocket.

“Sent you the information for Mara’s office, where I go. She’s a good one. A psychiatrist, so she can work with your meds, but she’s got her own practice, and she does psychotherapy sessions.”

“I’m not doin’ therapy.”

“Just keep the information.”

Ian scrunched up his face like he smelled something foul.

“It’s hard,” Mindy said, clipping her phone back onto her belt. “But it _will_ help you. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

\---

He still didn’t go to therapy.

He took a screenshot of the text for no reason other than so he’d have proof he didn’t _completely_ blow Mindy off if she ever brought it up again, and he went about his business.

But the thing about Ian’s entire life is that shit simply doesn’t leave him alone. Shit’s always like catching a sweater on a nail, that one pulled loop of yarn getting larger and larger until eventually, it’s unignorable, and it frays, and all you can do is take scissors to it and fuck up your sweater in the process.

See, Ian’s brain tends to go a little screwy with the changing of the seasons, the transition into winter making him feel tired and slow--making his thoughts take on a harder edge, making his eyes feel raw and wet and causing a lump to form in his throat some mornings when he just wants to pull the covers over his head and cry.

It doesn’t always progress into much. By the time he was twenty-two and a half, Ian hadn’t had a proper, full-blown episode in a couple years, and he’d spiraled himself into enough of an obsession with his moods that he could pretty easily recognize if he was starting to cycle and could manage his symptoms or get himself to the clinic if he felt it was needed.

But still, the screwiness happens, and it happened bad enough in early December that it scared him.

He wasn’t _awful_ ; he was functional. But his alarm that morning had bothered him so _much_ for some reason, had given him such a pressure between his eyes and a tightness in his chest that he’d thrown his phone against the wall, chipped a bit of the drywall with it, and then proceeded to sit up cross-legged in bed, press his hands to his face, and cry.

He pulled himself out of bed and into the shower several minutes later, and he stood under the scalding water for half an hour, pissed with himself and too tired to be pissed. His limbs felt heavy, like he weighed a thousand pounds, and the longer he stood there, the longer he considered lying down and stretching out along the floor of the tub.

Ian only managed to drag himself from the shower when the water ran cold. 

He picked up his phone on the way from the bathroom, dripping water everywhere because he hadn’t bothered to dry off. The screen had a hairline crack in the top corner, which wasn’t a big deal, but it made his breath pick up, made the lump in his throat start to form again, and made him climb back into bed, naked and sopping.

He knew what was happening to him. Had known for a couple days, really, as he’d felt a little more tired than usual, had been cranky and short.

When he was a kid, he used to watch Monica cycle--used to watch her snort coke off the kitchen table and go on wild shopping sprees with Frank’s stolen credit cards, used to watch her lie in bed for days, crying. He doesn’t remember her acting like she _knew_ what was happening to her at the time, even though she must’ve. She must’ve known because Ian knows. 

He didn’t know it the first time, maybe--at least not in a way he could process--but he does now. He gets anxious with it sometimes, worried he’s slipping, worried anytime he starts to hyperfixate, has trouble sleeping, feels overly-inspired or overly-dissatisfied with his life, that it’s happening again.

He knew it was happening that morning as he pulled the now-wet blanket tightly around him and felt the water from his hair drip down his temple. 

Ian had his triggers. There was the seasonal thing, which apparently wasn’t unusual for people with bipolar, but he also knew that being stressed and overworked to the point that he wasn’t resting properly could do it. Sometimes drinking messed with him. He’d gotten pretty fucked up after Monica died.

That morning, he twisted over onto his back, cringing at the wet hair curling against his neck and pressed into the pillow, and pulled out his phone.

It wasn’t an emergency, and he didn’t know yet if it was even worthy of an appointment at the clinic, but he did need to call out of work.

He texted Mindy, explained the situation, and she called him five minutes later.

They talked for nearly half an hour, Mindy clearly worried about him, and it made Ian cry a little because he fucking hated it. He hated himself, and he hated his brain, and he hated the brittle tension he felt settling into his bones. Wanted to snap it.

“Do you know what triggered this?” Mindy asked, a forced blanket of trained calm stretched over the nervousness in her speech.

He didn’t know because nothing was really going on--nothing special, at least, just the seasonal thing, and maybe he’d been overdoing it on kestrel, trying too hard--but he talked to her, and she listened, and he still felt like shit at the end of their conversation, but talking about it helped.

He never talked to people about his shit in any sort of meaningful way. His siblings asked about his meds, and the doctor asked about his symptoms in the most clinical fashion imaginable, but nobody asked about his feelings.

Ian hated talking about them. It embarrassed him to tell Mindy about throwing his phone against the wall. About feeling tired and frustrated and like he wanted to scream. But hearing the words come out of his mouth made his issues that morning feel like a story to be told, and telling it gave him a strange sense of peace and understanding. 

It’s one thing to stare at the bedroom wall for an hour, obsessing over the sizzle beneath your skin and the crack on your phone screen. It’s another to tell someone about it and to realize that your irritability’s making you fixate on something that isn’t that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. And it still _feels_ like a big deal, but you know it isn’t, and just knowing that it isn’t takes the edge off.

\---

Ian didn’t go to therapy immediately, but he did ask for a referral at his next appointment at the clinic, and he met Dr. Mara Fetterman in January of 2019. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a woman who acted thoroughly unimpressed by him.

Not that he thought it would be hearts and rainbows--and definitely not that he wanted it to be--but Mara exuded the most intense _don’t waste my time_ energy that Ian was immediately intimidated by her.

And what’s more, she didn’t seem all that interested in his bipolar, and they spent the majority of his first fifty-minute session discussing his job, his relationships, and what he hoped to get out of therapy. It wasn’t until she went over his prescriptions toward the end that the subject came up, and even then, she just asked him if he was experiencing any bothersome side-effects.

He asked Mindy at work the next day if she was always like that, and Mindy just smiled and said, “Trust the process.”

It took him a few more sessions to get a better sense of who she is, and it turned out that who she is is cold as ice, tough as nails, but a great listener and someone who somehow knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

At first, they didn’t talk much about his bipolar on its own, but they talked about fucking _Monica_ , and Ian went home after his fourth session, smoked a joint, and allowed himself five minutes to cry.

“You think you’re your mother,” Mara had said definitively, tapping her pen against her notepad in time with her words.

“I mean.” Ian had taken a deep breath, eyes darting nervously around the room. “I think I’m _like_ her.”

“ _Are_ you like her?”

“I’m fuckin’ crazy.”

“ _Are_ you crazy?”

“I tried to hotwire a helicopter. I stole a car. My brain’s--”

“When did you do that?”

Ian had taken a sip of water from the paper cup he’d brought with him from the waiting room. “When I was seventeen.”

Mara had given him a level stare. “When you were seventeen and unmedicated. You didn’t know what was happening to you. You were scared.”

And in an action that seemed totally uncharacteristic, she had reached out her notepad and tapped Ian on the knee with it. “Don’t beat yourself up, dude. Life beats us all. We don’t have to help.”

She’d smiled at him then, and Ian had nodded at her.

“Now. Tell me how you’re like Monica in three specific and distinct ways.”

Ian couldn’t think of more than two.

“Obviously, the bipolar,” he’d said, tiredly running a hand over his face. “And I can be impulsive, I think.”

He’d sat for several quiet moments, trying to come up with a third.

“Can we try something?” Mara’d asked, giving him her second smile of the day. 

She’d pulled out a small whiteboard, and after an enormous amount of prompting, had gotten Ian to make a list of fifteen of Monica’s qualities, good and bad.

And then, as Ian had started questioning why they were doing it, Mara had him, one by one, erase them until all that was left was their shared qualities.

There were eight of them, and only three were negative.

“Now erase the ones that are due to the illness that you’re managing.”

After considering for a moment, his throat suddenly feeling tight, Ian had erased two of the negative qualities.

“You shared an illness, Ian,” Mara’d said, taking the whiteboard from him and drawing a circle around the five good qualities left. “But you also shared these qualities.” She gave him her third smile. “And I think they’re pretty damn good ones. Be nice to yourself. It’s not the worst thing in the world to be a…” She’d tapped the marker against a couple of the words. “... loving person with a kind heart.”

\---

Now, Ian’s been seeing her at least once a month for a year.

He gets her, and he appreciates her. She challenges his thinking in ways no one else ever has before, and though he sometimes feels like the appointments put him out of commission for the rest of the day, he can’t help but look forward to them a little each time.

\---

It’s Friday morning, and he’s yawning as he sits down in the leather chair in Mara’s office.

“Glad to see you, too,” she says dryly, grabbing her notepad and pen off her desk and having a seat in the chair across from him. 

“Sorry.” Ian yawns one last time and finishes by rubbing both hands over his face. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He pauses for a moment--long enough to watch Mara uncap her pen and start to write.

“No, not like that,” he says, waving her off. “I’m good. I was just…” 

Rereading a 77-message email thread with a client.

“I had a long night.”

She looks up from her notepad. “Are you seeing someone?”

Ian scoffs. “Not like _that_ , either.”

“What’s that face for?” She’s pushing, not teasing, her pen-tip held just above the notepad, prepared to write. 

He shrugs, wishing she’d just let him have some coffee. “Dating?” he says incredulously. “I dunno.”

“You don’t want to date?”

Ian hopes to fall in love one day. He hopes to have someone to care for, to lose sleep with, to help him spend his savings on putting together the pieces of his childhood and building something normal.

He _hopes_ , but well. He’s thinking about it at a fucking psychiatrist’s office.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes meeting the bit of shine on the toe of Mara’s wing-tip shoes. “I mean. I dunno. I’m not exactly a catch.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a lot to deal with.”

Mara tucks her pen behind her ear and learns forward. “You know what my wife would tell you if you asked her about me?”

Ian raises an eyebrow. Shrugs.

“That I’m a lot to deal with.” She winks at him, and he smirks.

“Anyway,” she says, crossing her legs. “We’ll talk about this another time. Have you downloaded eMoods since we met last?”

\---  
\---

After his appointment, Ian heads in to work. It’s a long day and largely uneventful. Aside from a couple transport jobs and an idiot twelve-year-old who’d accidentally shot himself in the thigh while trying to do tricks with a Beretta, Ian spends the majority of the day playing a rousing game of Uno with Ellie and Jake until Mindy catches them and makes them stay past the end of their shift and take rags to the rig.

He heads to the bank ATM after work, deposits and cashes part of his paycheck, and then picks up his prescription refills at Walgreens. 

By the time he’s back home again, it’s nearly 8:15, and he’s got a cam session with one of his clients at 8:30.

Quickly, he strips off his uniform, pulls on a black T-shirt and jeans, and sets up his tripod near the futon mattress he has on his bedroom floor.

It’s not the sexiest setting, but the idea of doing that shit on his bed weirds him out--feels invasive, almost, like he’s invited his client into his home, into the privacy of the life he tries his best to keep separate from the app.

For that thirty minute period, he’s just Ian--just three little letters--and he's a slutty college boy or a hot exhibitionist who likes to jerk off into a pair of gym shorts or a shy secretary who’s nervous about his boss catching him with a hard-on.

His client tonight--Thomas--likes him to be soft and unguarded. He’s an easy-enough trick, as there’s not much to bringing himself to orgasm while whispering endearments, but Ian always feels a little uncomfortable afterward as Thomas is coming down from his own climax with tears running down his face.

“I love you,” Thomas says that night, chest heaving, and Ian nods at him, whispers a hurried “You too” between breaths.

“You’re always so good to me,” the client keeps murmuring. “You’re better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Ian hates this part. 

He’s seen it all, really: clients who are cruel afterward; clients who get shy and embarrassed; clients who are disgusted by what they’ve done and are quick to end the call. Clients like Thomas, who are aging and lonely and are looking for things Ian can’t give away.

He plays it up--returns Thomas’s words of love--but he can’t help but feel like an asshole in the end, when they’ve hung up and he’s spot-cleaning the come stains on the futon mattress and thinking about the fact that Thomas is a real dude who lives somewhere in southern Wisconsin. A real dude who’s throwing his affection and his tears at a 23-year-old bipolar sex-worker who, afterward, simply wipes away everything they’ve just done with a damp washcloth and carelessly tosses it into the laundry basket.

Ian questions what he does sometimes when he has clients like Thomas. But then he has clients like Ken, who calls him a dirty whore after he comes, and he has clients like Bobby, who just gives him a headache, and in the end, he knows it’s just a job, and it’s just money, and feeling like he’s somehow abusing Thomas’s loneliness for cash is a drop in the bucket compared to how much he feels he’s owed when the comment left with Ken’s twenty dollar tip is, “Lick up your cum next time, slut.”

\---

Once Ian’s cleaned up, showered, and changed into his old, threadbare gray T-shirt and blue checkered boxers, he takes his meds, pours himself a bowl of Lucky Charms, and eats it while casually watching TLC and scrolling through the kestrel notifications he hasn’t had a chance to check.

There are a couple emails he needs to reply to and another dick pic from Bobby, and there at the bottom, apparently from sometime after he’d fallen asleep last night, is a notification that gives him a strange little jolt of energy up his spine.

_**MICKEY** has upgraded to the Silver Package._

A small smile beginning to work its way onto his face, Ian swipes over to the chat client and finds Mickey’s name on his list.

The lightbulb beside his name is gray, indicating he’s offline, but Ian taps his name anyway, opening up the message thread. The automatic messaging system had already sent out a greeting and upgrade information, but Mickey hadn’t responded.

Ian sucks his lip for a moment and, with a shrug, sends another message.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Hey. You upgraded!

\------------------------

He considers sending him an emoji, since unlike the email client, the messenger client actually supports them, but he deliberates too long and ultimately decides he doesn’t want to awkwardly send a smiley four minutes after his previous message. 

Ian taps open Mickey’s profile but finds it’s blank, the circle where his picture would go nothing but a gray outline of a male head and shoulders.

He taps the pads of his thumbs idly against the screen and, after pausing to take a bite of cereal, swipes over to his own profile and chews while he looks at his picture.

It’s old--the same one he’s had since he started working for the app. He’s smiling in it, and he looks unmistakably younger than he does now, his face thinner, his hair shorter and neatly combed.

Ian takes another bite of cereal and opens up his camera roll. He finds a fairly decent selfie he took the week prior. He’s got on a white tank-top that’s showing a bit of his chest hair, and he’d recently had a haircut, so the sides are freshly buzzed while the top flops a bit over his forehead.

Ian opens it up in VSCO, crops it a little and plays around with the filters until he’s chosen one that makes his hair look vibrant and flame-red, and then uploads it as his new kestrel profile picture.

Idly, he wonders if Mickey’s already seen his other--if he’d cared enough to look, that is, or if he’d even figured out that the profile feature exists in the first place.

Not that it matters.

Ian closes out of kestrel, deciding to save his other messages for before bed, and finishes his cereal while watching the last fifteen minutes of _90 Day Fiancé_.

\---  
\---

Ian goes off-site for lunch the next day, deciding to check out the new sandwich place down the block. He doesn’t typically head out by himself, usually grabbing lunch with Ellie or munching on fast-food in the break room, but it’s a sunny Saturday, and Ellie’d taken off for her kid’s birthday, and Ian has a craving for a fried chicken sandwich _not_ from KFC.

At the restaurant, he gets a two-seater booth in the back and has his sandwich and Sprite while swiping around on his phone, checking Instagram and reading the popular posts on Reddit.

On a whim, just as he’s halfway through his sandwich, he decides to check the kestrel messenger client.

Ian never does this shit, usually trying his best not to even open the app outside his work hours unless there’s something pressing. But Mickey’d upgraded two days ago, and he hadn’t messaged him back, and Ian’s a little curious.

He taps open the app and swipes over to the messenger tab. He’s got four messages from clients that he reads through casually before scrolling down his chat list.

Most of his clients don’t bother signing on during the day, knowing they can’t really get anything out of Ian until after seven. But down at the bottom of his list, his name sorted in that fashion because of their lack of two-way interaction, is Mickey’s name, his lightbulb lit up green.

Ian taps open their message thread and, bouncing the toe of his black Air Force 1 against the metal booth table leg, considers.

There’s literally no reason for him to message Mickey. He’d already sent him a message the night before, and he hadn’t yet responded.

Ian takes a bite of his sandwich and stares at the green lightbulb. 

And as he chews the bite and then washes it down with a slurp of Sprite, he shrugs and thinks, _fuck it_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:02 PM):** Hey hey hey.

\------------------------

He winces immediately after sending it.

Could he have chosen to lead with something dorkier?

And Ian decides after an unreasonably tense minute in which Mickey doesn’t reply that he wasn’t expecting a response, really. Mickey was probably just clicking around the app like he was, passing the time, not looking to talk to anybody.

Ian stares at the green lightbulb for probably a little too long before setting down his phone and resigning himself to finishing his sandwich.

But just as he picks it up with both hands and goes in for a slice of bacon peeking out from beneath the top bun, his phone buzzes on the tabletop.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:04 PM):** Sup

\------------------------

Ian sets his sandwich back down, that weird jolt of energy beginning to slowly make its way up his spine.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:05 PM):** Saw you were online so I thought I'd check in. Thanks for upgrading, by the way. 👍

 **Mickey (1:05 PM):** Yeah no problem. I was gonna just tip ya to make up for the chump change you're gettin but don't know how

\------------------------

He thinks about the message Ken sent with his tip a few nights ago. It’s part of the job, Ian knows, and he thinks it’s probably mostly an act--the fantasy they play bleeding into all of Ken’s interactions with him--but Mickey’s message makes him feel good in comparison.

He wanted to tip him because he didn’t think he was being paid enough.

Ian rereads the message over and over as he sips at his drink.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:07 PM):** Oh yeah? Well, you're never obligated, but if you look on the main page of the app, there's a button that says “tip jar” in the top left corner. You can just put my name in there, and it'll add however much extra you select to your bill for the week.

 **Ian (1:07 PM):** I appreciate it.

 **Mickey (1:08 PM):** You get to keep your tips?

 **Ian (1:08 PM):** Yes, actually! They're added directly to my check at the end of the week.

 **Mickey (1:09 PM):** Cool

\------------------------

And that’s the end of their chat, apparently.

Ian waits for a moment, considering whether there’s a way to elegantly respond to a _Cool_ without sounding like he’s trying too hard to make conversation. He takes several more bites of his sandwich, finishes his pop and accepts a refill from the waitress, and then, picking his phone back up, decides to just go for it. 

Whatever. He’s bored on his lunch break, and he’s feeling awkward for being all alone at a restaurant.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:13 PM):** So, do you have any questions about the Silver Package? In addition to IMing, we can also exchange photos. And there's a profile you can edit if you click on the button in the top right of the chat window. You can add a picture of yourself if you're comfortable with it.

\------------------------

It’s not the most interesting way to continue the conversation, but it’s at least a reasonable thing to say and is probably something he should’ve sent out earlier.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:14 PM):** Nah I'm good

\------------------------

Great. Ian bites his lip.

He peers around the restaurant, eyes falling to the giant Coke-logo clock on the wall, and sees he has several minutes before he needs to leave. He clicks over to his own profile again, gives his picture another once-over, and switches back to the message thread.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:15 PM):** I've got one of me up, so feel free to check it out. And I can send you more pics if you're ever interested.

\------------------------

Ian does this professionally. He sends men nudes, and he pretty unashamedly calls them shit like “daddy” if they request it.

But that last sentence he sends through makes his heart kick, sends a little sizzle of nerves into his belly. His breath picks up as he waits.

And waits.

Mickey doesn’t reply.

Fuck.

Ian sets down his phone and waves down the waitress for his check. That’s that, he guesses.

 _Shit_ , what if Mickey looked at his picture and was repulsed by him? The filter makes his freckles extra-visible, and that’s not everybody’s cup of tea, and--

His phone buzzes just as he’s reaching for his wallet.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:19 PM):** I bet you burn like a motherfucker

\------------------------

Ian smiles. 

He waits for the waitress to return, pays his $9.79, and sends two more texts before he gets up to leave.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:21 PM):** 😑

 **Ian (1:21 PM):** Actually, not too bad if I'm careful. Mostly I just get really, really freckly.

\------------------------

He does his best to text Mickey as he leaves the restaurant and starts making his way back to the station.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:23 PM):** You're already really really freckly.

 **Ian (1:24 PM):** The freckles multiply exponentially. You ain't seen nothin'.

 **Ian (1:25 PM):** That picture was taken after winter fade, anyway. See me in July and I'm all freckle.

 **Mickey (1:25 PM):** I'll take your word for it

\------------------------

Ian knows he must look obnoxious as hell, like a teenage girl texting while walking, but he weaves his way as best he can down the block, eyes trained on his phone as he searches his camera roll for another picture to send Mickey.

He finds the one he’s looking for--a photo Debbie had taken of him last summer at the Gallagher Fourth of July party. He’s got on a teal tank-top and his knock-off Clubmasters, and his freckles are deep and numerous from a few weekends in a row of going to the public pool when he’d babysat Liam and Franny.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:31 PM):** You don’t have to. Check it.

\------------------------

He sends through the photo and, eyes still trained on the phone screen, almost runs into a light post.

“Ya good, Gallagher?” someone calls. Ian looks up, embarrassed.

It’s Jake, standing on the sidewalk outside of the station, smoking. 

Ian flips him off.

“Get distracted by a dick?”

“Yeah, my own,” Ian replies with a smirk. “It’s so huge, I just can’t get it outta my head.”

“Uh huh, Gallagher. Take your ass into that station.” Jake blows a stream of smoke in his direction.

 _Shit_ , he’s hot. Hot like an underwear model and built like a Greek god. Too bad he’s both a total top and banging a twink he met mouth-first in the bathroom of the White Swallow.

Ian flips him off again--with both hands this time--and heads in.

He checks his phone once he’s in the locker room, and Mickey hasn’t replied.

Was Ian being too intense? Too like, _forward_ or something? Is that possible on kestrel? Did Mickey think he was ignoring their agreement to simply talk as friends?

Ian pulls off his coat and stuffs it in his locker before taking his phone back out.

He doesn’t know why he cares so much. Mickey could be just as much a weirdo as any of his other clients. Just because he’s twenty-six and doesn’t try to get Ian to lick his own come out of a shot glass over FaceTime doesn’t mean he’s _actually_ different from the other guys. 

Even if he was, it doesn’t fucking matter.

And yet, Ian still sends him another text.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:35 PM):** So. You doing okay? Enjoying your Saturday?

\------------------------

He’s not even expecting a reply, half-resigned to the belief that Mickey’s annoyed by him. But just as he’s checking in with his weekend supervisor, he feels a vibration in his pocket.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:37 PM):** Yeah, I guess. Bored outta my fuckin mind

\------------------------

Ian heads into the break room and has a seat in one of the well-worn recliners. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:37 PM):** Oh yeah? No fun weekend plans?

 **Mickey (1:38 PM):** Bout to shoot some h

 **Mickey (1:38 PM):** Might smoke some angel dust

 **Ian (1:39 PM):** 😳 ...cool.

 **Mickey (1:39 PM):** Fuckin with you. You’re easy as hell

 **Ian (1:40 PM):** No fair. I don’t know you. Who knows what you’re up to?

 **Mickey (1:40 PM):** Yeah yeah

 **Ian (1:41 PM):** So DO you have any fun plans?

 **Mickey (1:41 PM):** Nah man. Just laundry and shit

 **Ian (1:42 PM):** Yeah, I probably should do my laundry this weekend.

 **Mickey (1:42 PM):** You got plans

 **Ian (1:43 PM):** Nope. Just working.

 **Mickey (1:43 PM):** Cool

 **Ian (1:44 PM):** Yeah.

\------------------------

Riveting. Ian leans his elbow on the armrest of the recliner and scrolls back through their conversation. 

After a few minutes, when Mickey still hasn’t replied--and who blames him, as there’s not really a way to smoothly reply to that--Ian adjusts his position in the recliner and figures he might as well say goodbye. 

It’s either that or let the conversation die at his last, pathetic _yeah_.

It occurs to him that there’s very little evidence in their entire conversation that Mickey actually _wants_ to talk to him, and it makes Ian’s cheeks warm with gentle embarrassment.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:49 PM):** Guess I’ll let you go.

 **Mickey (1:49 PM):** Ok

 **Ian (1:49 PM):** Talk to you later. Hope you can find something fun to do before the weekend’s over.

 **Mickey (1:50 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (1:50 PM):** Bye.

 **Mickey (1:50 PM):** See ya

\------------------------

Ian leans over his knees for a second.

“Dick got ya dizzy?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jake.” He’s laughing when he sits up.

Jake’s standing by the snack machine, fine as hell, flattening out a crumpled dollar bill. “Wanna Ho-Ho, ho?”

Ian stands up and walks out.

\---  
\---

He works again on Sunday, and it’s busy. Two car accidents, a diabetic coma, an overdose, and a woman found unresponsive in a Target dressing room.

By the time he’s home that night, he’s never been happier to have a couple days off.

He gets take-out burritos and has the rare bottle of beer, then takes his meds and is out like a light before eleven.

\---

Ian sleeps until almost noon on Monday, and even when he’s awake, he just gets up, takes a shower, and climbs back in bed with a mug of coffee.

It’s one of those dreary January days where the sky’s perpetually gray and his apartment heating barely touches the chill. 

He flips on the TV he has mounted on the wall across from his bed. It’s a forty-two inch flat-screen he’d bought with his first kestrel paycheck. He doesn’t actually use it that often--mostly just on mornings like this or on the odd occasion where he feels unbearably horny and screencasts porn from his phone.

He puts on season 4 of _The Office_ and slurps his coffee while checking his email and social media accounts.

He’s got an email from kestrel with a list of all his tips for the week, and he smiles when he sees Mickey’s tipped him ten bucks. Had done it just after their awkwardly stilted conversation on Saturday.

Ian finishes his coffee and, to the soundtrack of Michael Scott hitting Meredith with his car, sends Mickey a message.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:02 PM):** Thanks for the tip!

 **Mickey (12:03 PM):** Yep

\------------------------

Ian snorts at that and gets up to refill his coffee.

When he gets back, he decides, _whatever, who gives a fuck_ , and grabs up his phone again.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:08 PM):** Has anybody ever told you you're a brilliant conversationalist?

 **Mickey (12:09 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Teasing? Maybe? Ian takes a hard gulp of his too-hot coffee and feels it burn its way down his esophagus. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:10 PM):** (Sarcasm and attitude still okay? Or no? I sort of got mixed messages last week.)

 **Mickey (12:11 PM):** I think you should just do what you want

\------------------------

A little dickish, there.

Ian types out three variations of responses, from _Uh. Just trying not to overstep?_ to _???_ to _Can you just tell me what you’re comfortable with?_ before finally settling on

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:13 PM):** Hm.

 **Mickey (12:13 PM):** What

 **Ian (12:13 PM):** Just having a little trouble reading the room, here.

\------------------------

Ian can’t get a read on this guy.

And the thing is, he _always_ gets a read on his clients. Nearly from the get-go, he can tell if someone’s going to be needy or an asshole or if he’ll want to try to get Ian to do progressively more and more uncomfortable shit.

He can usually also tell if they’re going to be relatively nice, painless, and easy to work with.

Mickey, though? Ian reads and re-reads all of their messages--and by now there are over a hundred, including the emails--and he still feels like he doesn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know if Mickey’s going to say something funny or dickish. And he doesn’t know if Mickey’s going to say something completely _kind_ in the sort of way that Ian thinks is entirely by accident, like Mickey doesn’t actually know he’s coming across as sweet and considerate.

He doesn’t know, even, if he’s going to say something that’s a combination of all three, like what he messages Ian a couple minutes later.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:15 PM):** Sarcasm good, attitude good, you're welcome for the tip.

\------------------------

Ian smiles, blows across the surface of his coffee, and takes a slow slurp.

Yeah. Okay.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:17 PM):** So did you just give me permission to tease you on the regular?

 **Ian (12:17 PM):** 'cause that's what I got out of that comma splice.

 **Mickey (12:18 PM):** You policing my grammar now

 **Ian (12:18 PM):** Nah. Though your punctuation could use some work.

 **Ian (12:18 PM):** 😉

 **Mickey (12:18 PM):** Nerdy fucker

 **Ian (12:19 PM):** I did test out of 10th grade English.

 **Mickey (12:19 PM):** Congratulations, does that come in handy when you're gargling old man balls?

 **Ian (12:19 PM):** Mm hm! My oral skills are very advanced.

 **Ian (12:20 PM):** ...get it?

 **Mickey (12:21 PM):** Fuck off

 **Mickey (12:21 PM):** I gotta go

\------------------------

Ian sets his half-finished coffee down on his nightstand and stretches out on his back, squishing his head comfortably in the valley between his two pillows.

Idly, he wonders why Mickey has to go, but he stops himself from taking that train too far. Maybe he’s at work.

Maybe it’s none of Ian’s fucking business.

He bites his lip and types something that makes his heart rabbit-kick a bit with nerves.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:22 PM):** And I was just starting to have so much fun with you.

 **Mickey (12:22 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian pulls the covers up over his head.

\---  
\---

Not that Ian cares at all. Not that it matters one bit. But he figures out that week--their second week in communication--that Mickey is the absolute world’s worst at staying in contact.

 _Maybe_ not the world’s worst. Maybe several of his clients better fit the bill. But the point still stands that Ian’s fairly certain Mickey will never message him first.

And normally, he’d be fine with that. He’s got kestrel down to a science, down to an _art_ , after all, and it’s often a relief when his clients don’t contact him. But on Monday night, and again on Tuesday, when he’s sitting cross-legged with Lip on the empty floor of his new house, eating from a bag of Five Guys fries, he can’t help but want to message with him.

“What’re you thinking about, dickhead?” Lip asks, kicking at his foot.

Ian throws a fry at him. “About how it’s gonna take fuckin’ forever to get this house together.”

Ian’s been helping Lip renovate whenever he can. They’d got some neighborhood guys in for cheap to do most of the work that needed actual skill, but Ian and Carl had been taking turns helping with everything else. 

It’s still a bit of a disaster area, but they’re probably only a week out from being able to start painting.

And overall, Ian may tease, but it’s truthfully coming along nicely.

He’s happy for Lip. Glad he’s been able to carve out a space of his own for his little family.

He lowers himself on the dusty floor and stretches out on his back.

“Doin’ okay?” Lip asks, and Ian can feel him lie down beside him.

He turns his head and looks at him. Considers--for the briefest of moments--actually telling him what’s on his mind. But ultimately, he just raises his eyebrow, brushing off the thought, and asks, “Got any weed?”

\---

He tries Googling Mickey again on Friday, after it’s been four days since he’s heard from him.

Feeling like a gross, creepy stalker, he searches for Mickey+Chicago+security and Michael+Chicago+security and even Mickey+Chicago+security+gay, but obviously--because Google can’t actually work miracles--he comes away empty-handed.

And it’s at this point, as he’s considering moving his searches to Instagram, that he puts his phone down and presses his forearm against his eyes.

He doesn’t know this guy any more than he knows Ken or Thomas or fucking Bobby. He doesn’t know _anything about him_.

How pathetic can he be to borderline obsess over a guy just because he’s sort of funny and sort of an endearing dick and sort of kind and _sort of_ nice to him in a way a lot of his clients just aren’t?

Ian doesn’t even know what he _looks like_.

He just finds him intriguing in a way absolutely nothing has been intriguing to him in years.

A client on a literal sex app who doesn’t want to do sex stuff and yet continues to pay a weekly subscription fee to let Ian occasionally message him? Who _does_ that? And why?

Mickey’s twenty-six, and he works security somewhere in Chicago, and he’s “in okay shape” and has black hair and blue eyes.

What if he’s hot?

Ian’s stretched out in bed, and he’s got [Halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qw_DHs2ZGs) playing low on his bluetooth speaker, and he’s typing variations on “Mickey” into the Instagram search bar even though he knows it’s useless and he’s being a weirdo.

“Fuck,” he whispers, locking his phone and tossing it to the foot of the bed. He’s a fucking loser. _Such_ a loser.

He used to get like this sometimes, when he was first learning how to manage his bipolar. Would get fixated on shit. But it was always fixations on completely impractical plans or ideas. Ian’s never been fixated on a _person_ before.

He’s not sure whether or not it’s normal. Do people over the age of fourteen do shit like this?

Ian switches off the lamp on his bedside table and buries himself in his comforter. 

He really needs to get laid.

\---  
\---

Ian’s off work all weekend.

On Saturday, he sort of helps Lip and Brad with Lip’s flooring but mostly babysits Freddie while they work, carting him around the house and taking him on a jog in the stroller.

He’s probably biased, but Ian thinks he’s really fucking cute. Like, cuter than the average seven-month-old. He has thin wisps of blond hair and two tiny white lines of teeth beginning to poke through his bottom gums.

Maybe he’s a little young, but Ian says his own name around him as much as possible that day, thinking it’d be funny if it were Freddie’s first word.

“Uncle _Iii-an_ ’s gonna be your buddy,” he says to him as they stand out on the sidewalk, having stepped out for some fresh air. “You wanna be my buddy?” He bounces him a little on his hip and turns a circle, grinning when the baby bares his gums.

Ian doesn’t know where he’s ever going to get one, but he does maybe want a baby one day. A kid of his own with someone of his own.

His bipolar throws a wrench in pretty much everything but surrogacy, and even then, he doesn’t know if he wants to risk passing on his screwy head to some poor, unsuspecting kid.

Maybe if he were to meet somebody, though. Maybe he could one day have a partner who’d want a family with him. Who’d help him have a child.

Ian can’t help but roll his eyes at the thought. He dances a bit with Freddie, stroking the soft fuzz of his head, and wonders how he’d ever convince a man to love him like that.

\---

When he gets home that night, he does two cam sessions, texts with a UIC professor for a while, and checks his schedule to see Lucas, his Marvel-aficionado Platinum Package regular, has purchased mutual blowjobs for the following Tuesday.

Mickey’s lightbulb stays off. 

He thinks back on their exchange Monday and, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, scrolls through their conversation. 

Had he been annoying? 

Mickey had left quickly and seemingly at random. And he’d told Ian he was cool with sarcasm, but like, why hadn’t he messaged him again? 

Ian considers checking in. It’s been five days, after all, and he thinks it’d probably be a reasonable thing for him to do. Decidedly not creepy.

He’s got _Haven’t heard from you in a bit. You good?_ typed into the chat bar before it occurs to him that it’s midnight and therefore too fucking late for a check-in message.

Ian closes out of kestrel altogether, gathers up the nearly-empty bottle of Vanilla Coke he’s been nursing for the past hour, and goes to get ready for bed.

\---  
\---

He wakes at a little after nine, takes a shower, and decides to make himself some warm cinnamon pancakes because it’s Sunday and his floorboards are cold and he’d had nothing but a PB&J and a clementine for dinner the night before.

Ian hates that the reason he’s a pro at this is because once when he was manic, he’d filled every bit of Gallagher kitchen counter space with plated pancakes because he’d been convinced he needed to feed his entire family and the neighbors. It’d been this weird generosity obsession, his chest feeling like it was going to burst if he didn’t do something to make the huge, horrific world a better place. He’d watched a fucking _documentary_ , and he’d filled twelve entire pages of his knock-off Moleskine journal with ideas.

Debbie had called Fiona--who’d made him an appointment at the clinic--when she’d walked in on him the next day making a pile of his family’s clothing in the center of the living room. He’d been planning to donate it, and it’d seemed like a great idea at the time.

He’s embarrassed when he thinks about it now as he plates his pancakes and turns off the stove-top.

Ian eats them in silence at his cramped little kitchen table, then makes himself a mug of coffee and heads to the couch for a couple hours of Sunday morning Netflix.

But just as he sits down, he remembers the aborted kestrel message to Mickey he still has in the text box. He takes a slow drink of his coffee--housed lovingly in his Fuck You mug--and swipes open the app on his phone.

_Haven’t heard from you in a bit. You good?_

He reads the message over and over, contemplating. Considering.

Finally, before he can talk himself out of it, he taps send.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** Haven't heard from you in a bit. You good?

\------------------------

Mickey replies barely a minute later.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:13 AM):** I was until your fuckin message woke me up

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Shit. Sorry. Go back to sleep!

\------------------------

 _Goddammit_. He hadn’t considered the time. He cringes as he rereads their short exchange.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:14 AM):** Nah man, too late

 **Ian (10:15 AM):** Sorry. I wasn't even paying attention to the time.

 **Mickey (10:15 AM):** Whatever

\------------------------

Fuck, Mickey’s pissed. _Is he pissed_? Ian checks his profile again--just to see, in vain, if he’d maybe updated it overnight--and then swipes back over and stares at their messages, trying to come up with something to say.

Should he apologize again? 

He can’t fucking _read_ him. 

Is he _pissed_? Did Ian somehow piss him off on Monday without realizing it? 

He hadn’t messaged him in _five days_.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:17 AM):** You want something?

\------------------------

Ian has never felt like more of a loser in his life.

\------------------------ 

**Ian (10:18 AM):** Just checking in, I guess.

 **Mickey (10:19 AM):** All good here, boy scout

\------------------------

Awesome. Ian drinks the rest of his coffee, puts his mug in the sink, and goes to work out.

He’s gotta do something else before he embarrasses himself even more.

\---  
\---

Ian wishes he loved working out as much as he used to.

Exercise, building strength, building muscle, used to be so important to him when he was a kid. He’d do a hundred push-ups before school, would run bleachers for fun, and used to fucking kiss his biceps like a douche when he wanted to playfully show off to his family.

He still loves the burn, he likes the way it makes his body look, and it helps him prevent meds-related weight gain. But part of him also doesn’t really see a point anymore.

When he was a kid, he was always training. Training for JROTC. Training for the Army. Ian doesn’t know what he’s training for, now.

He does his first 50 push-ups and is starting up his single-leg planks when he hears his phone vibrate from where it’s lying on his dresser.

Heart giving a hard _thud_ , he shoves himself to standing and quickly heads over to grab it.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:31 AM):** You doin alright?

\------------------------ 

There’s a rush of blood in his ears. He can hear his own pulse, can feel it thumping in his neck.

\------------------------ 

**Ian (10:31 AM):** Yeah, sorry.

\------------------------

Does he need to apologize? Has he been weird?

Ian shuffles his bare feet restlessly against the morning-cold hardwood. He looks at himself in the mirror above his dresser--takes in his exercise-pink cheeks and the slow trickle of a sweat drip at his temple.

He blows out a breath. _Stop being weird_.

\------------------------ 

**Ian (10:33 AM):** I was just reading through Monday's exchange, and since I hadn't heard from you in a while, I sort of wondered if I'd pissed you off or overstepped. Like I said, I'm really not used to just being myself and messaging like this, so I'm not sure if I'm doing it right.

\------------------------

Ian takes several backward steps until his thighs meet his mattress and drops down on his bed. He holds his phone up above him with one hand, waiting for Mickey to respond, and with his other, he scratches at his belly idly, nervously.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:35 AM):** Nah, it's cool. I've been busy and shit

 **Ian (10:36 AM):** Okay. Good to hear.

\------------------------

He thinks of something else to say--something to keep the conversation going.

He can’t actually go with the _So what kind of music do you like?_ question, as it’d be random as hell right now, as would _What’s your favorite movie?_ and _Do you think I’m annoying?_

Maybe that last one wouldn’t be so much random as insane.

Ian shuffles around on his bed until he’s got his head resting on his pillow.

 _Does_ Mickey think he’s annoying?

Fuck, he’s annoying _himself_.

Whatever. He sends what he’s thinking. If Mickey thinks he’s a huge loser, it literally doesn’t matter. Ian’s only getting seven bucks a week from him, anyway, and the worst that could happen would be him simply cancelling his subscription.

\------------------------ 

**Ian (10:41 AM):** I also wanted to say that you know you can message me, right? Like, I don't have to be the one to start the conversation.

\------------------------

How fucking _desperate_ does he sound?

Ian closes his eyes and turns to press his face into his pillow.

And it seems like it takes forever for Mickey to respond--long enough that Ian considers sending another text, apologizing for the way he sounds, swearing he’s just trying to do his job, he’s not _actually_ desperate, he’s not _actually_ an obsessive weirdo.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:44 AM):** Yeah I know. Don't wanna bug ya. I'm sure you've got plenty of pervs to entertain

\------------------------

Oh.

Ian blows out a breath. 

There he goes again, being weirdly sweet in a way that makes him seem like he’s not even trying, like he has no idea how he’s even coming across.

\------------------------ 

**Ian (10:45 AM):** I've got clients, but you're one of them, even if we're just keeping things friendly for now.

 **Mickey (10:46 AM):** Fine, lesson learned. I'll message you next time I shit to let you know about it

 **Ian (10:46 AM):** 🤨 If that's what you're into.

\------------------------

Ian chuckles. Whatever, Mickey.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:49 AM):** What if I was?

 **Ian (10:49 AM):** Are you?

\------------------------

Please, no. _Please_ , no.

Just his luck, Mickey’d turn out to be into scat, and Ian would have to quietly die inside while pretending to get off on pictures of his shit.

\------------------------ 

**Mickey (10:50 AM):** Fuck no! But is that like something you do?

 **Ian (10:50 AM):** I mean, I haven't encountered that so far, but sure. Within reason.

 **Mickey (10:50 AM):** How exactly is pretending to be a fuckin horse worse than that

\------------------------

In one year, five years, ten years, when Ian looks back on the beginnings of his relationship with Mickey, it’s that question he’ll think of--that question that sent a jolt of electricity up his thighs, settling as warm heat in his belly.

It was Mickey asking him a genuine question, and it was him being different than anyone else Ian had ever encountered on kestrel, and it was Ian relaxing into talking to a person as _himself_ , as Ian--three little letters--but also as Ian Clayton Gallagher, 23-year-old kid from Southside Chicago, bipolar Back of the Yards boy who needed someone to talk to.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:52 AM):** Well, horses can't consent to sex, and even if they could, the words I would have to use in order to describe what I'm doing to the client during sex would give me hives. And I said “within reason.” You can tell me about your shit, fine, but I don't necessarily want to do anything with it.

 **Mickey (10:52 AM):** Gross

\------------------------

It probably says a lot about his experiences on kestrel, but Ian’s never been happier to read the word _Gross_ in his life.

And it’s absolutely not what he should be talking about with Mickey. He’s pretty sure it’s unethical as fuck and would be frowned upon--could get him fired or at least sent a strongly-worded email--but Ian just wants to talk to Mickey about weird shit his clients say to him and want to do with him. He wants to talk about _kinks_ and what the two of them like and what freaks them out.

Because he can’t talk about this shit with anyone. There’s not a single person in his life with whom he can discuss gay sex and kestrel. Lip can hardly even keep a straight face whenever Ian mentions regular, boring, run-of-the-mill anal.

Fuck. Wouldn’t it be wild if Ian made a fucking _friend_ on a sex app?

Besides Jake, maybe, in the loosest sense of the term, Ian’s never had a gay friend.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:54 AM):** So, you got any kinks up your sleeve?

\------------------------

He doesn’t mean anything at all by it, but he bites his lip once he sends it. He’d only meant to steer the conversation toward talking about kinks in general.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:56 AM):** Fuck no, man. I already told ya about that shit

\------------------------

And, okay. He should stop.

He can’t _read_ Mickey, and it’s completely possible he’s going to piss him off. But well, knowing Mickey, and knowing what always seems to happen every time they talk, Ian’s probably going to piss him off no matter what.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:56 AM):** You said you like it pretty traditional. What's your favorite thing to do, then?

 **Mickey (10:57 AM):** I'm not talking about this with you

\------------------------

Ian blows out a breath.

How the hell do people even make friends?

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:58 AM):** That's cool. Sorry. I wasn't actually trying to get sexual or start anything. Just making conversation.

 **Mickey (10:58 AM):** It's whatever. You talk too much

 **Ian (10:58 AM):** If I had a dollar...

\------------------------

Ian can’t help but smile at Mickey’s _You talk too much_. 

He doesn’t, really. 

He was a chattery kid, and the sentence feels familiar, but it’s familiar like a coat you’ve outgrown. He can be quiet sometimes, now. Gets stuck in his head.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:02 AM):** Look, I'm just not used to talkin bout shit like that. Where I come from you don't like casually talk about gay sex shit without gettin your ass beat

\------------------------

Ian scratches at his right eyebrow. Presses his lips into a straight line.

Okay. Yeah.

It comes together for him then, as he reads and rereads Mickey’s message. Maybe it’s the reason for the rocky start and the shaky footing. The anger at being asked to share his interests and his desires for their time together.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and, in a text he’d never send another client for fear of revealing too much of his identity, says

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:04 AM):** No worries. I'm Southside, so I get it.

 **Mickey (11:04 AM):** No shit?

 **Ian (11:05 AM):** Yeah, Back of the Yards, born and raised.

\------------------------

He wonders if he’s surprised Mickey, somehow--a Southside gay who’s out and comfortable enough to do what he does while showing his face.

Southside doesn’t have the best reputation for being open-minded or for raising gay men to a relatively stable existence.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:08 AM):** Yeah, I know the neighborhood. Southside here too

 **Ian (11:09 AM):** Oh yeah? Well, we understand each other then.

\------------------------

he types as his heart threatens to explode from his chest cavity.

Mickey’s Southside.

Mickey’s _Southside_?

Southside where? What neighborhood?

He has a sudden compulsion to ask his last name, to ask what fucking _school_ he went to because he would’ve only been a grade or two ahead of Ian.

But he obviously can’t do that. The thought of the amount of boundaries he would be crossing and probably already _is_ crossing is enough to make his stomach sour.

He reads through their last few messages and, pursing his lips, thinking, writes

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:12 AM):** Just, y'know, this is a safe space and all. For the future. If you ever want to talk about gay sex shit without getting your ass beat.

 **Mickey (11:13 AM):** Thanks Dr. Phil

\------------------------

It was cheesy, he knows, but Ian also knows from personal experience that it’s hard to be gay in Southside, and it’s hard to feel like you can really talk about stuff in your life and have people hear you and understand where you’re coming from.

Ian may be getting paid to what is essentially sext Mickey, but he wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to about things sometimes--things he can’t tell Lip and can’t tell his work friends.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:14 AM):** I’m serious. I know we don’t really know each other, but we can talk about anything you want, no judgment. 

**Mickey (11:14 AM):** Like what

 **Ian (11:15 AM):** I dunno. Anything. Work, sex, family?

 **Mickey (11:15 AM):** Kinda weird, man

 **Ian (11:16 AM):** Or I could just make fun of your grammar and you could send me middle finger emojis. Whatever you want.

 **Mickey (11:16 AM):** 🖕

 **Ian (11:17 AM):** See? You’re a natural.

\------------------------

Ian smiles at his phone.

They say goodbye, the two of them seemingly mutually agreeing to part ways, and Ian grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and tries to go back to his workout.

He can’t concentrate, though, and it’s made even worse when, in the middle of his crunches, he decides to check his tip jar--something he usually doesn’t even care to do until he receives his payment report on Mondays.

Mickey did it last time, and well, Ian just wants to _see_.

This time, he’s tipped him fifteen dollars, and with it, has written, “thanks.”

Ian blows out a breath through pursed lips.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:51 AM):** Thanks for tipping. You really didn’t have to do it, but I appreciate it.

 **Mickey (11:52 AM):** Yeah yeah

\------------------------

Yeah, yeah.

Ian spends the rest of his Sunday doing laundry, buying groceries, visiting the ATM, and then stopping by the Gallagher house to drop off a bit of money he gets to Debbie every couple weeks to help cover Liam’s expenses.

Since Fiona left, the family dynamic has shifted into something much less defined than it once was. Debbie seemingly wants to be head of house, at least where finances are concerned. Carl’s in and out, having hooked up with an older girl who has her own apartment, and Lip splits his time between the RV in the back yard and his own house, which currently has just one room not so severely under construction that it’s inappropriate to sleep in.

Ian tries to help with the kids as much as he can, babysitting when needed and hanging out at the house at least a couple times a week. Liam’s ten and growing up independent. While this would normally be an admirable trait, Ian knows it’s a symptom of being a pre-teen Gallagher without any sort of parental figure aside from Frank when he’s roping him into a scam.

The rest of them may’ve had shit for parents, but at least they had Fiona when they were just learning to figure out life.

\---

Liam’s watching TV with Franny when Ian arrives at the Gallagher house that day. He sits with them for a while and watches a nature show about baby animals while eating from a box of Cheez-Its.

Franny climbs onto his lap half-way through, and he gives her a handful of Cheez-Its and lets her lie back against his chest.

The older she gets, the more her hair color shifts and grows closer and closer to Ian’s exact shade. They don’t look alike otherwise, and she’s devoid of the kind of freckles that dotted every square inch of his skin when he was a kid, but he likes knowing that he’s got a little ginger buddy.

Liam takes their picture once the show’s over, and Ian uploads it to Instagram when he gets home that night, captioning it _Ginger Club_.

\---

Though Ian likes to think he has a decent Instagram account, he isn’t popular--at least not enough to brag about. He has 124 followers, most of them people from his past he barely knows anymore, and the average number of likes on his posts is around twenty to thirty.

People don’t randomly follow his account, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t show up in anyone’s suggested posts, and really, for kestrel-related reasons, he’s made it as difficult as possible to be found short of privating his account.

So when he wakes Monday morning to find a like notification from a seemingly random account, he’s a little suspicious. 

The account is mickm7189, and the person had apparently liked and then unliked the _Ginger Club_ photo.

Ian taps over to the profile and sees that it’s set to private with no identifying information other than the username, and he sees the person’s following just four people and has two followers. 

And he doesn’t know why it takes him so long, but after glancing at the username again, he blanches. _mickm7189_.

Mick.

Mickey?

His heart pounds, and his palms break into a sweat. There’s no way that’s not Mickey. If it’s not, it’s one hell of an unbelievable coincidence.

 _mickm_. Mick M.?

Mickey M. Michael M. Mickey’s short for Michael, right?

Ian does a Google search for the username, but the only thing that comes up is a Spotify account. He taps the link, which opens up the app on his phone, and scrolls through the person’s saved playlists.

“90s Rock Anthems.” “80s Hard Rock.” “Power Ballads.” “90s Accoustic.” “00s Metal Classics.” “Rock Me Up!” “I Love My West Coast Classics.”

Lots of dad music. No name anywhere. Ian swipes back to Instagram and stares at the blank account.

And in all the thinking and searching, he’d forgotten to ask the most important question of all: how did Mickey _possibly_ find his Instagram?

Ian thinks back on their conversations, wondering if he’d somehow given him identifying information, but he can’t think of anything other than telling him he was Southside, which means nothing in this context. And it’s not like Ian’s a rare enough name that a person would be able to find him in a casual Instagram search.

Does Mickey _know_ him? Does he know his last name?

 _Is_ this actually Mickey?

It occurs to Ian that this could possibly just be a coincidence--a spam bot with a coincidental first few letters. But in what world does that happen?

Ian taps his thumbs against the screen, considering. 

Mickey could be a creep. He could be one of those clients who desperately wants to know Ian outside the app or outside their hookups, attempting to ask him personal questions, trying for his real number, saying he’ll take him on a date despite the fact that the guy’s married with a kid his age.

Honestly, though, Mickey _hasn’t_ been doing any of that. If anything, _Ian’s_ been the one doing the asking. Ian’s been the one pushing. Based on their interactions so far, it seems completely plausible that Mickey has no interest in even taking advantage of his subscription.

It still doesn’t answer the question of how the hell, if this is Mickey, he found his Instagram account. But pressing his lips together and going out on a limb, Ian taps “Follow” and watches the blue button turn to a black “Requested.”

If it isn’t Mickey, Ian’s trying to follow a weird bot or a random stranger. If it is Mickey, he’s letting him know he’s...what?

Interested? Open? Weirdly okay with him somehow Internet stalking him enough to find him on social media? Okay with being his friend in spite of that?

Ian takes a deep breath and drops his phone down on the bed beside him, maneuvering himself to get up to get ready for work. 

It’s not like he hasn’t been Internet stalking Mickey, too, if you want to call it that. He may or may not have spent half an hour the night before Googling for a “Michael alias Mickey” in the various Southside Chicago neighborhoods.

Maybe Mickey’d just had better luck tracking down a Southside Ian.

With a shrug, Ian climbs out of bed and heads to the shower.

\---  
\---

Ian can’t decide whether the fact that Mickey doesn’t accept his follow request means that it _is_ him or it isn’t. 

He checks his phone intermittently throughout work on Monday, waiting on the push notification that his request had been accepted, but it never comes.

“ _Still_ distracted by that dick?” Jake teases, tapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve checked your phone ten times in the last five minutes.”

Ian’s in the process of making a list of supplies that need to be ordered. He chucks his pen at the other man. “It’s _definitely_ not that,” he says, ducking playfully when the pen’s thrown back at him.

“I absolutely believe you,” Jake says, tone of voice making it clear he absolutely doesn’t.

“Hey. Believe what you want.” Ian flips the page on his clipboard and then picks up the pen from where it’s lying on the floor of the ambulance. “C’mon, man, we gotta get this done.”

\---

He considers un-requesting mickm when he gets home that night, stomach starting to twist up at the thought that he’s basically just Instagram-requested a fucking client.

It’s one thing for a client to, out of curiosity, track down his account and maybe accidentally like one of his pictures. It’s another thing for Ian to go to the guy’s profile and attempt to follow him.

He’s eating a grilled cheese and staring at the black “Requested” button, contemplating tapping it to undo the request.

But because he’s a fucking idiot, and because he’s maybe drinking just a _little bit_ of beer with his grilled cheese, he decides instead to message Mickey on kestrel.

If he replies, they can maybe talk about the request or non-request or whatever’s happening there. And if he doesn’t?

Well, if he doesn’t, Ian’ll know Mickey thinks he’s a creep.

\---  
\---

He doesn’t reply.

Ian sends him a question and then, a minute later, another message that may or may not be his attempt at baiting him into a reply.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:13 PM):** How was work? Kept everything secure in that mysterious security career, I hope. I feel like you're a bodyguard. Are you a bodyguard?

 **Ian (7:14 PM):** Ah, shit. Forgot I was forcing you to start the next conversation. My bad.

\------------------------

And when twenty-four hours pass and there’s no sign of life from Mickey’s end of things, Ian’s pretty resigned to the belief that sending him that request was the wrong fucking thing to do.

He knows it’ll pass. Cringey feelings don’t last forever, and one day, he’ll be able to think back on how much of a dumbass he was and think it’s funny, maybe.

But right now, Ian can’t concentrate.

At nine, he meets up with Lucas at the Holiday Inn Express in Niles.

Lucas looks exactly like you’d expect a Marvel superfan to look like, with a Captain America shield tattoo, an unkempt beard, and bitten fingernails that exude _I eat Flamin’ Hot Cheetos while playing PS4 all day_ energy.

He’s nice, though, and he has to be Ian’s most low-stress Platinum client. He’s pretty sure Lucas has never had sex with anyone ever except for him; the guy has absolutely no idea what he’s doing every time they hook up and never gets better or seems to learn new skills between their sessions. Plus, all he ever wants to do is give each other handjobs or oral. Ian’s usually in and out in half an hour, tops.

“Good to see you,” Lucas says, watching nervously as Ian takes his iPad from his bag and pulls up the app.

kestrel issues their Gold and Platinum employees an iPad and an iPhone, locked so they can only be used for business purposes. 

If nothing else does it, using the iPad to register a meeting and process his client’s order makes Ian feel like he’s simply on the job. At first, he’d thought it was weird as hell, but the longer he works for kestrel, the more he appreciates doing it this way.

“Mutual blowjobs?” Ian confirms, checking Lucas’s order. “Anything else before we get started?”

Lucas wrings his hands in front of him and shrugs. “Can I tell you about my new tattoo?”

Ian shrugs, not unkindly, and the man proceeds to lift his shirt and show him the Infinity Gauntlet on his side, in the same location as Ian’s first teenage-mistake of a tattoo.

“Cool,” Ian says, nodding. 

Lucas goes on to tell him, as the two of them awkwardly remove their pants, about what inspired him to get the tattoo, why he decided to go with black-only ink, why he thinks he’ll get the stones colored in at a later date. Ian smiles and tries to carry on the conversation as much as he can while standing in the middle of a hotel room with his dick out.

\---

The sex is spectacularly unspectacular. Lucas comes in two minutes flat, even through a condom, and after, Ian closes his eyes and thinks about the sexiest things he can as Lucas then sucks at him inexpertly. 

Sensation’s sensation, and it feels good no matter who’s doing it. Lucas doesn’t like to have his hair touched, so Ian grips the sheets instead. It takes about four minutes to get him off, and the orgasm is fine, hits him just the way it’s supposed to, burns out just the way it always does.

He blows out a breath when it’s over and looks down to watch Lucas awkwardly stand and go to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

Ian removes his condom and ties it off, and by the time Lucas is out of the bathroom, he’s redressed himself, has his iPad in hand, and is ready to finish out the transaction.

\---

He grabs his phone the second he leaves the hotel room--stands in the elevator pulling up kestrel and double-checking that even though he hasn’t received a push notification, Mickey still hasn’t responded to his messages.

He swipes over to Instagram. Nothing.

 _Fuck_.

\---  
\---

The rest of the week passes with more of nothing.

And it’s not that Ian _cares_ , really. Mickey’s a client. Mickey’s money. He doesn’t care if Mickey cancels.

He’s mostly worried Mickey thinks he’s a fucking weirdo.

He’s worried he _is_ a fucking weirdo.

\---

On Saturday, he meets Lip at his house at eight, and the two of them get started on painting his living room. Tami’d wanted to go with simple white walls and light, laminate-wood floors, and Ian thinks it’ll look good once they’re finished.

“How’s the dick-for-cash thing?” Lip asks as they’re starting on their second wall.

Ian knows they’re alone, but his heart pounds at his brother saying that shit out loud to the point that he considers shushing him like a kid.

He takes a deep breath and dips the roller in the paint tray. “Fine?”

“Fine, huh?”

“Yeah. I dunno.” Ian applies the roller to the wall and begins working it up and down. He pauses before re-dipping the roller, and in a move he can only chalk up to the fact that Lip’s his brother and, when it comes down to it, his forever best friend, he says, "I have this client."

Lip stops what he’s doing--painting bottom edges. “And?”

Ian dips the roller. “It’s a weird situation. We’re just sorta _talking_ , like, not hookin’ up or anything.”

“You into this guy?”

“Nothing like that, no.” Ian shakes his head and starts back to rolling the wall. “I don’t know shit about him. Apparently he’s Southside, though, and I think he’s probably like, not out or whatever, so he’s kinda guarded.”

He sees Lip shrug out the corner of his eye. “Makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

They paint for a few minutes in silence, and because well, it’s the whole reason he brought it up in the first place, Ian murmurs, “I think he found me on Instagram.”

“How?”

“No idea. Literally all he has to go on is my first name and a picture, but there’s gotta be like, thousands of Ians in Chicago. I don’t even have my location anywhere on my Instagram profile, so I can’t figure out how he found me.”

“So…?”

“ _So_ , I dunno. I have no idea what I’m doing. I sorta don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

“Got yourself a fan?” Lip smiles from where he’s sitting on the floor, and Ian rolls his eyes at him.

“Yeah, sure. A fan.”

\---

After hearing the rest of the story, Lip thinks he needs to get the fuck out of the situation.

In response, Ian does the only thing he can think to do, and that’s message Mickey again from the bathroom two hours later, where he’s been furiously attempting to get paint off his face because his brother’s a dick. 

Lip had accidentally set his hand in the paint tray, and in retaliation for Ian’s teasing, had pressed that hand against his forehead, giving him a white print across the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows, and up into the front part of his hair. He wants to fucking kill him.

He’s managed to get most of it off, his skin rubbed red-raw, but there’s still specks in his hair and his brows are _caked_.

And he absolutely doesn’t view it as retaliation because how the hell would it be, but he does view it as _my brother’s a dick and I don’t give a fuck what he says_ when he messages Mickey,

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:07 PM):** Hint, hint. You're supposed to start the next conversation.

\------------------------

Of course, Mickey doesn’t reply to that, and Ian leaves Lip’s house later that afternoon pissed at both his brother and himself.

He goes home, scrubs at his eyebrows with a rough sponge and dish soap, and only manages to get them looking marginally better.

 _Fuck_ , he looks ridiculous. He tries to brush his hair down in the front to see if he can cover them up, but all that does is make him look like he’s in a boyband. 

And he’s still fuming three hours later, eating mediocre delivery alfredo, when his phone vibrates.

He chokes a little when he sees the kestrel notification.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** Well here's me starting the next conversation

\------------------------

 _Shit_. Ian takes his food to the kitchen because it’s really not worth eating, grabs a can of Cherry Pepsi from the fridge, and comes back to settle on the couch.

There’s moisture on his palms, and he taps his toes against the floor restlessly as he types a reply.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:22 PM):** Damn. Proud of ya. 👏

 **Mickey (8:22 PM):** Fuck off 🖕

 **Ian (8:23 PM):** So what have you been up to? It's been a while.

\------------------------

Should he bring up the Instagram thing? Would it be weird?

What if it _isn’t_ Mickey? In that case, Ian would basically be telling his _client_ that tried to follow him on Instagram, which would be awkward on so many levels.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:25 PM):** Busy week and didn't really have much to say.

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** Got it. 👍

\------------------------

Ian doesn’t _mean_ to be a little cold with that _Got it. 👍_ , but he’d literally asked him a question. Mickey’s _didn’t really have much to say_ is such bullshit, and now, Ian’s more convinced than ever that there’s an elephant in the room the size of Mars and Ian has follow-requested Mickey’s burner account after he caught him insta-stalking.

He takes a distressed drink of his Pepsi and pulls his legs up onto the couch, criss-crossing them under him before setting in to reply again.

He’s typed out, _So, let’s just clear the air_ , when Mickey messages him.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:27 PM):** You doin ok

\------------------------

And well, there he is being nice again.

Ian erases the message he’d typed and stares at Mickey’s reply. Checks his profile _again_. Sees it’s blank _again_.

Lip had told him he needed to drop Mickey as a client, saying, “even if he’s not a crazy fuckin’ stalker, he’s stressin’ you out, man.”

Not that Lip didn’t have a point.

But as Ian sits there on the couch, nursing his pop and thinking about everything Mickey’s ever said to him--thinking about _You doin ok_ and how the fact that he drops his g’s is weirdly endearing and how he’s _Southside_ and therefore’s probably weird about gay stuff because depending on your family, growing up gay in Southside’s like growing up with a shotgun against your back.

Maybe Mickey has a burner Instagram account. Maybe he somehow found Ian’s profile.

Maybe he wants a gay friend just like Ian does.

He sets down his Pepsi can and, thinking, _What the hell?_ and thinking, _Lip fucked up my eyebrows_ , sends Mickey a picture his brother had teasingly texted him a couple hours before of him with the paint on his face.

Beneath it, he types, _Sure am glad I don’t have a job that requires me to be pretty._

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** You piss off the wrong guy there?

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** Wrong brother, more like. I've been helping him paint his living room all day.

 **Mickey (8:45 PM):** Well look at it this way. There are worse colors to have all over your face in your line of work.

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** Man, that's filthy. I'm impressed.

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** I'm sure ya got some guys that are into it

\------------------------

Ian’s breath leaves his lungs when he realizes they’re joking about facials.

He does nothing to help himself when he messages back,

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:47 PM):** Who isn't?

 **Mickey (8:48 PM):** You asking?

 **Ian (8:48 PM):** Who 👏 the fuck 👏 isn't?

 **Mickey (8:49 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian bends forward over his criss-crossed legs for a second, grinning because _fuck_ , this is the most Mickey’s given him.

That middle finger might as well be an _I’m into it. Shut the fuck up._

He chuckles as he types his reply.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:51 PM):** That's what I thought.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply to that, but something about the rhythm of their current conversation has Ian feeling that jolt of electricity beginning to sizzle its way up his spine.

On a whim, he opens up the camera app and takes a shot of his eyebrows.

It’s _awful_ but effective in showing off how matted the hairs are, and he sends it along to Mickey with 

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:54 PM):** I got most of it out of my hair, but it's like caked into my eyebrows.

 **Mickey (8:55 PM):** Fuck, man

\------------------------

Ian uses his fingers to comb the hair down over his forehead like he’d tried out earlier. He takes another picture.

And he considers sending it to Mickey, but he looks so fucking _stupid_ , like he’s trying to be one of those dudes from One Direction circa 2010.

He goes with a simple message, instead.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** Guess it could be worse, though. I'll just brush my hair down over my forehead or something until it comes out. I only have cam dates scheduled for next week, anyway, so it should be pretty easy to hide.

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** Do your clients actually care about that shit? Like you couldn't just tell them the situation?

\------------------------

Mickey says _your clients_ like he isn’t one, and that gets Ian thinking that maybe _this_ is how people make friends.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:00 PM):** I mean, I could, but it would ruin the illusion. After the first few messages or emails, we're usually in fantasy mode.

 **Ian (9:01 PM):** Which is why I said a couple weeks ago that the dynamic I have with you is extremely unusual for me.

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** So you never get guys that wanna date you for real or whatever?

\------------------------

Something about that gives Ian pause.

He knows he’s reading into it, probably, but is that or is that not exactly the kind of question you ask someone when you are, in fact, one of those guys?

Ian is _absolutely_ reading into it.

But like, what if Mickey thinks he’s hot? What if that’s the reason he somehow tracked him down on Instagram?

Ian slouches back into the couch cushions and checks Mickey’s profile once more for a picture.

 _Fuck_ , he’s pathetic.

He shakes his head, snapping himself out of it because he has _got_ to work on reigning in this shit, and responds in as serious and clinical a fashion as he can.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** I think I've mentioned the guys that want the boyfriend experience. I get one of those every now and again, but it's still a fantasy. I'm the perfect boyfriend who does whatever they want and is into whatever they're into; they're getting their emotional, romantic, or sexual needs met.

\------------------------

Yeah, he gets this sometimes. Guys who want him to be theirs.

And to better answer Mickey’s question, he _does_ get the guys who try to get with him for real, but they don’t want _him_ because they don’t know him. They know his persona. They know Boyfriend Ian. They don’t know bipolar Ian from Southside Chicago who watches Netflix while sexting them.

Who thinks about his favorite porn scenes while fucking them.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:09 PM):** It's all a negotiation. Everything's role play, even if I'm role playing as Boyfriend Ian. That's why I was a bit perplexed when you didn't give me much to work with. There wasn't a fantasy to create because you didn't want one, so it's like, “What do I do?”

\------------------------

That’s the most honest answer he can give.

Mickey doesn’t reply for long enough that Ian’s worried he won’t. But just as he’s finishing up his Pepsi and taking it to the trash can, his phone vibrates.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:12 PM):** How do I know you're being real with me? I assume you're pretty good at pretending.

\------------------------

Ian stops at the kitchen counter and leans over it, pressing his elbows to the surface and getting his thumbs poised near the keyboard of his phone.

 _Being real_ with him. 

It’s a fair question, and it’s hard for Ian to even articulate--to even know whether it’s ever even possible. He’s not that sure he knows _how_ to be real in such an artificial environment.

But the awful picture he’d sent him a few minutes prior’s gotta be the closest thing to being real with a client that he can get for now.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** Dude, I just sent you an ugly ass picture of my fucked up eyebrows. What kind of fantasy would that even be a part of?

 **Mickey (9:15 PM):** I dunno man

 **Ian (9:15 PM):** And I'd like to think I'd do a much better job of not pissing you off if I were trying to create a fantasy for you.

 **Mickey (9:16 PM):** Ok yeah, you are an annoying motherfucker

 **Ian (9:16 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

It’s stupid, but it feels good to send the middle finger emoji to someone who’s not a family member. Feels good to joke about pissing Mickey off and be called annoying in return.

Because that’s just it. He _does_ piss Mickey off, and he probably _is_ annoying, but Mickey seems... _cool_ with it.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:17 PM):** Explain to me how it’s annoying for me to try to talk to you when you’re literally paying me for it?

 **Mickey (9:17 PM):** Yeah I’m payin you, so I’ll talk to you when I wanna talk 🖕

 **Ian (9:18 PM):** Are you implying that you’re paying me literal money NOT to message you? Because I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t message you, you’d never talk to me ever.

 **Ian (9:18 PM):** You’re paying money for us to never talk.

 **Ian (9:19 PM):** You’re giving me free money.

 **Mickey (9:19 PM):** You’re annoying as hell

 **Ian (9:19 PM):** I made 7 whole dollars this week for doing nothing.

 **Mickey (9:20 PM):** I take back my question, there’s no fuckin way you could hold down a single client being like this

 **Ian (9:20 PM):** I’m delightful. I have a 4.9 rating.

 **Mickey (9:21 PM):** Yeah, a 4.9 rating for being fake. How do I rate you

\------------------------

Ian bites down on the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:21 PM):** You can only rate me after five months or if you cancel.

 **Ian (9:22 PM):** Gotta wait five months.

 **Mickey (9:22 PM):** Or I could cancel

 **Ian (9:22 PM):** Sure.

 **Mickey (9:22 PM):** You think I won’t

 **Ian (9:23 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (9:23 PM):** If you cancelled, you couldn’t pay $7 a week to not talk to me. Where’s the fun in that?

 **Mickey (9:23 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian feels the conversation winding down, and he should probably go. He has a phone sex date at ten--audio only, thankfully--and he’d like to review his notes on that client and settle himself a little before the call comes in.

But he does want to say one more thing because he’s not sure if Mickey knows it, and he wants him to.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:27 PM):** Seriously, Mickey. Receiving a message from you isn’t going to bug me.

 **Mickey (9:27 PM):** Whatever

\------------------------

At least he didn’t virtually flip him off. Ian takes a deep breath, and the two of them say their goodbyes.

And when he goes to the bathroom afterward, he pees and washes his hands and looks at his face in the mirror. His cheeks are red, and his eyes are bright.

He dries his hands and goes to take his meds.

\---  
\---

Something about the conversation that night changes Ian’s view of Mickey. 

While he was at first nervous about him, cautious about pissing him off and worried whenever he didn’t respond, he now takes it upon himself to casually send him shit every once in a while.

He still doesn’t know if he’s got a good read on him--if it’s the full picture or an accurate interpretation--but Ian now senses Mickey’s reticence is less about him actively disliking Ian and more about him being shy.

Maybe not shy _in general_. He doubts Mickey’s a quiet, shy person. But Ian thinks he’s maybe nervous about talking with a guy--especially when it’s through an app quite literally meant for hookups, virtual or otherwise.

So he sends him pictures of random shit--his favorite shoes, animals he sees while walking to the L, funny graffiti he comes across while smoking outside a restaurant.

And maybe it’s a forward move. Maybe it’s a little bit dickish because it’s, in a roundabout way, bringing up the insta-stalking thing to the person who is probably mickm. But along with the random pictures, Ian also sends Mickey stuff he posts on Instagram.

Nothing with other people, obviously, but he sends him a shot Liam took of him wearing a heart-antenna headband from the Valentine’s Day section at Target. He sends him a selfie of him bundled up, nose red, sitting in the snow in the Gallagher yard with a caption reading, _Kill me._

Mickey almost always replies, now, though it’s sometimes with nothing more than a middle finger emoji. Occasionally, however, it actually initiates a conversation, as in with the snow picture.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (6:11 PM):** I’ll let it slide this time, but it’s probably not a good move to ask a stranger online to kill you

 **Ian (6:12 PM):** Good point.

 **Ian (6:12 PM):** You don’t happen to be a serial killer, do you?

 **Mickey (6:13 PM)** Not a serial killer, no

 **Ian (6:14 PM):** 🤨 I noticed you said not a SERIAL killer.

 **Mickey (6:14 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (6:15 PM):** Are you any kind of killer?

 **Mickey (6:15 PM):** Would I tell you if I was

 **Ian (6:15 PM):** You’re full of good points tonight, Mickey.

 **Mickey (6:16 PM):** Also why the hell are you sitting in the snow

 **Mickey (6:16 PM):** Seems if you hated it you could just not do that

 **Ian (6:17 PM):** Have you ever met a child?

 **Mickey (6:17 PM):** Weird question but yeah

 **Ian (6:17 PM):** 😂 

\------------------------

He genuinely laughs at that, only straightening up when he realizes people on the L train are staring at him.

Ian presses his lips together and goes back to his message.

\------------------------

 **Ian (6:18 PM):** I wasn’t finished with my thought. 

**Ian (6:18 PM):** I have a little brother (10) and a niece (4). We were playing in the snow.

 **Mickey (6:19 PM):** Got it

 **Ian (6:19 PM):** Do you have siblings and nieces/nephews?

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply for a while, and Ian shifts nervously in his seat, worried he’d maybe asked too personal a question.

But just as the train slows to a stop at 47th and Ian’s standing to get off, Mickey replies.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (6:25 PM):** 2 brothers and a sister. Got half ones too, don’t know how many. Not sure about any nieces or nephews but knowing my shit for brains brothers, probably 1 or 2 somewhere

\------------------------

That’s actually a lot of information about him. Much more than he’s provided so far.

Ian pulls his beanie down over his ears and steps out onto the platform.

They continue messaging until Ian’s fingers get so cold that he has to go.

\------------------------

 **Ian (6:31 PM):** Sorry I literally cant feel my fingers so I’m going ot go

 **Mickey (6:31 PM):** The fuck

 **Ian (6:31 PM):** I’m outside walking home shut up

 **Mickey (6:32 PM):** Get a uber, man

 **Ian (6:32 PM):** I cant youre only paying me $7 a week I’m poor

 **Ian (6:32 PM):** Also its AN uber 👼

 **Ian (6:33 PM):** Fuck that was supposed to be a wink fingersfrozen

 **Mickey (6:33 PM):** 🖕

 **Mickey (6:34 PM):** That was supposed to be a middle finger.

\------------------------

He’d been joking, but when he gets home and has thawed his fingers and cursed himself for forgetting his fucking gloves for the thousandth time, he sees a tip jar alert on the app.

Ian taps the icon and laughs when he reads Mickey’s message.

_For A fuckin uber you idiot_

He’d sent him ten bucks.

\---  
\---

One Saturday in early February, Ian realizes that he’s had Mickey as a client for nearly a month.

It sounds like a long time, but considering the fact that approximately the first sixteen days of that were spent hardly communicating at all, it’s more accurate to say that he and Mickey have been actively messaging each other for a couple weeks.

And it’s at this point, as Ian’s scrolling through their messages, looking at all the pictures he’s sent him, that it occurs to him that it’s possible he’ll never get a picture from Mickey.

He still checks his profile on occasion, hoping that he might one day upload a photo, but so far, nothing.

That’s why it comes as a complete surprise when he’s stretched out on the couch at the Gallagher house--Freddie asleep on his chest and no one allowing him to get up because, to quote Tami, _he’s gettin’ another tooth, and he won’t sleep, and I will literally kill you if you move_ \--when Mickey sends his first picture.

It’s of a jean-clad lap with a black cat perched on it.

Ian’s heart pounds, but he tries to keep cool when he replies.

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:59 PM):** And who is this?

 **Mickey (4:01 PM):** Dunno. He's a stray that hangs out behind the store I go to.

\------------------------

That’s actually endearing as fuck.

Ian tries to suppress his smile as he texts, not wanting anybody to ask him about it.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:02 PM):** I assume you're showing me a picture of him because you're taking him home with you, right?

 **Mickey (4:03 PM):** Looks mangy as shit. Got a weird ear too

 **Ian (4:03 PM):** I think what you mean to say is that you’re taking him home because he’s in desperate need of love only you can give.

 **Mickey (4:04 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian’s fucking _gleeful_ the next day when Mickey texts him a picture of the cat curled up on a blue couch, asleep.

The message under it reads, _Bon Jovi_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (2:22 PM):** Y'know, I had you pegged for more of a Taylor Swift fan.

 **Mickey (2:23 PM):** Fuck you

 **Ian (2:23 PM):** I love him already. Congratulations on being a good person, Mickey. 👍

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t respond because he rarely ever does when Ian’s just trying to be nice.

Whatever. He gets it.

He lets him not respond, and he stares at the picture of the cat--taps it and enlarges it--and smiles at the coffee mug he spies sitting on the side table at the very corner of the frame, barely in the shot. It says _Eat a bag of dicks._

Jesus Christ, Mickey. 

Ian scratches at his brow and, with a shrug, texts,

\------------------------

 **Ian (2:26 PM):** Now I have a bit of a demand for you, and that is that you're gonna have to send me a picture of him every day. Them's the rules.

 **Mickey (2:27 PM):** And what do I get out of it

\------------------------

Ian rolls his lips into his mouth and bites down.

Should he?

He types and retypes the message a total of three times before eventually sending it.

\------------------------

 **Ian (2:28 PM):** His beautiful face in exchange for my beautiful face.

\------------------------

Too far? He’s just being friendly. Trying to be funny. Trying to set up some sort of basis for regular communication past the _Ian sends a message, Mickey responds_ dynamic they have going on right now.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (2:30 PM):** Your beautiful face huh

 **Ian (2:31 PM):** That's what I said, bitch. 😎

 **Mickey (2:32 PM):** Cocky fucker

 **Ian (2:32 PM):** You know it.

 **Mickey (2:33 PM):** Whatever

 **Ian (2:33 PM):** You gonna do it?

 **Mickey (2:34 PM):** Why the fuck not

 **Ian (2:34 PM):** That’s the spirit!

 **Mickey (2:34 PM):** You’re the worst

 **Ian (2:34 PM):** Eat a bag of dicks.

 **Ian (2:35 PM):** (I like your mug, by the way. 😉)

\------------------------

Ian laughs when Mickey’s quiet for a minute because he knows he’s probably frantically trying to figure out how the hell he knows. Probably didn’t realize it was in the very corner of the picture frame.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (2:37 PM):** Did you zoom in on that picture

 **Ian (2:37 PM):** No, I’ve bugged your house.

 **Mickey (2:37 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (2:38 PM):** Wanna see my favorite mug?

 **Mickey (2:38 PM):** You’re the weirdest person

 **Ian (2:38 PM):** You’re supposed to say “Why the fuck not?” and I’ll say, “That’s the spirit!”

 **Mickey (2:39 PM):** Eat a bag of dicks

 **Ian (2:39 PM):** That’s the spirit!

\------------------------

Mickey sends Ian a picture of Jovi the next morning. 

It’s a shitty picture--the cat blurred with movement--but Ian still smiles at it and sends Mickey a picture of him holding up his Fuck You mug in a toast.

And Ian really wasn’t expecting it. Still, after talking to Mickey fairly consistently for over two weeks, he just assumes he’ll one day cancel or one day stop responding altogether, sending them back to where they were at the start--this confusing limbo that, Ian thinks, left them both a little off-kilter.

He wasn’t expecting it, but they actually maintain their Jovi-pic-for-Ian-pic routine. It’s always random, always at different times throughout the day, but at some point, Ian’s phone will buzz, and it’ll be a kestrel message with a picture of a skinny black cat with a notched ear.

And in response, he’ll stop what he’s doing if he can, pull a face or strike a wholly unserious pose, and take a selfie.

Ian’s work hours are seven ‘til eleven, but Mickey messages him whenever, and Ian responds immediately. And there’s so much of it--so many days of ten o’clock and one o’clock and three o’clock messages--that he’s left slowly sipping at a beer one Friday night, scrolling through them and thinking.

He’s thinking about how he and Mickey might actually be friends.

No, they’re _definitely_ friends. Who sends cat pictures and selfies and middle finger emojis to people who aren’t your friends?

Ian Gallagher has a friend. A _gay_ friend. Somebody with whom he can maybe one day talk about stuff, somebody with whom he can share stories about weird clients and random things that happen to a person throughout the day.

He closes out of kestrel and takes a cautious drink off his beer. 

He’d been a little worried about his mood lately, having been waking up in the mornings feeling _refreshed_ for once, feeling even just remotely ready to start his day.

He’d been worried because he was afraid he was beginning to tip into mania, was feeling energetic and happy. Was smiling at his phone and listening to peppy music and singing in the shower.

Ian had even gone so far as to turn to Google, reading articles and watching a YouTube video titled, “Mania vs. Joy.” 

At his February appointment that morning, he’d sat in the leather chair across from Mara, and he’d asked, fingertips tapping against the armrest, “Do you think I’m hypomanic?”

She’d scrolled through her iPad, reading through the eMoods information he’d sent her--his daily logs. “Do _you_ think you’re hypomanic?”

Ian had shrugged and wiggled his toes inside his sneakers. “I don’t necessarily feel like I did when I was hypomanic before. I’m just…” He’d paused, eyes wandering around the room before finally settling on Mara’s face.

“Just what?”

“I think I’m like, feeling _happy_.” And he’d said it like it was the furthest thing from normal.

She’d smiled at him and switched off the iPad. “I think that’s wonderful, Ian. Be happy.”

\---

That night, he drinks his beer in slow sips, always careful not to overdo it--extra careful, now--and taps the text box at the bottom of his chat thread with Mickey.

He presses his lips together, and he thinks about how he feels that bright bloom of warmth in his belly. Thinks about how he feels fucking _happy_.

And, smiling, he types,

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** Hey.

\------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 2  
> -Sorry I'm recycling so many conversations in these first couple chapters! My intentions are to have as many original conversations in EAY as I can; I just can't skip over their first few. Hope you enjoyed the extended versions of them, though!
> 
> -My timeline and seasons in LRPD are uh, not the best, and somehow, I had Mickey sitting on a park bench at 7:00 PM in February, and it most definitely would've been a) freezing and b) dark. I changed the time in this one, and I'll make the edit in LRPD as soon as I can.
> 
> -Ian will not be having any graphic sex with anyone but Mickey in this fic, and I'm only including a couple appointments with clients just so you know what they're like for him. Additionally, he will not be getting with Jake, even though that's something Mickey's definitely going to be worried about in a couple chapters. 😉
> 
> -I'm genuinely trying my best to work with the need for you all to suspend some disbelief when it comes to Ian not knowing Mickey by name. I mean. How many people are called Mickey in Southside Chicago? We're just going with Ian having forgotten that Mickey Milkovich even exists altogether at this point. Also! Ian _did not_ tell Lip Mickey's name when he was telling him about him. If he had, they'd have figured it out immediately.
> 
> -Pre-Mikhailo, was the fandom belief that Mickey was short for Michael?
> 
> -I keep forgetting how long it actually was before Ian saw Mickey's face.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! <33 I managed to get to about half of the Chapter One comments, and I'm genuinely going to try to do better with that with EAY. Please know, though, that I am so grateful for every single kind word about this fic, and even if I don't get to every comment because I tend to procrastinate and then attempt to do them all at once, know that I read and appreciate them all.
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> Gray


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian Gallagher's in big trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian spends half the chapter convincing himself Mickey’s his friend. Good news: he’s right.
> 
> I had so much fun with this! We’re taking a break from sad things with Ian, so content warnings here are minimal. I hope you enjoy! <33 This chapter picks up right where the last one left off.

When Ian messages with him that night, taking intermittent swigs of his beer like a nervous adolescent, he doesn’t think about the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day until a news story on TV reminds him.

They’ve been milling around that usual first few minutes of greetings and _what’s up_ s as they work their way into a conversation, and seeing the local reporter interview random passersby about what love means to them gives Ian a small kick in the gut.

It occurs to him that he could be interrupting Mickey’s night.

Sure, they’ve been talking for a month now, and in theory, it’s likely Mickey would’ve at least alluded to a partner if he’d been locked down. But well, _likely_ and _guaranteed_ are two very different things. Ian might be learning bits and pieces about the guy every day, but there’s still a lot he doesn’t know.

Taking a drink of his beer and swishing it around his mouth as he thinks, he types

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** Don’t know what kind of holiday this is for you, but happy Valentine’s Day if you’re celebrating.

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** Gross

\------------------------

Ian smirks, not knowing what he was expecting. Because bottom line, even if Mickey were fucking engaged to the love of his life, Ian can’t see him finding Valentine’s Day anything but disgusting and commercialized.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:47 PM):** Yeah, my thoughts exactly.

 **Mickey (8:47 PM):** Then why did you bring it up

 **Ian (8:47 PM):** I dunno. I don’t really know much about you. You could be celebrating. I wanted to be nice.

 **Mickey (8:48 PM):** Yeah ok

\------------------------

The thing about talking to Mickey is that sometimes Ian feels like he’s tapping cracks into that wall, and sometimes he feels like he’s lost his goddamn chisel. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:49 PM):** So are you celebrating?

\------------------------

It doesn’t _actually_ matter. Ian’s used to being sent pictures of the floppy dicks of guys who’ve been married for thirty years, so knowing Mickey’s in a relationship would just be par for the course, honestly.

But he’s _curious_. He takes another sip of his beer as he waits for Mickey’s response.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:50 PM):** What do you think

 **Ian (8:50 PM):** I don’t think anything. Like I said, I don’t know a lot about you. I know you’re not married, but you could have a partner for all I know.

 **Mickey (8:51 PM):** Be kinda fucked up if I did

 **Ian (8:51 PM):** You’d be like 75% of my clients if you did.

 **Mickey (8:51 PM):** Still fucked up

 **Ian (8:52 PM):** Maybe. I mean, yeah, it’s probably a shitty thing to do, but I can understand why some of them do it. A lot of them aren’t out, and kestrel can be a relatively easy way to be with a guy in secret.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply to that for so long that Ian just assumes he’s hit the nail on the head somehow--that in a relationship or not, Mickey’s not out and is using kestrel to be with a guy in secret.

He’s suspected, has even talked about it with Lip, and well, it makes a whole hell of a lot of sense. 

_It’s cool with me_ , Ian types, about to explain to Mickey that he gets it, it’s fine, he’s safe with him. But just as he’s halfway through the message, Mickey finally responds.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:55 PM):** I guess, just seems like a lot of money and trouble to go through to get your dick sucked when alleys in Boystown are free

 **Ian (8:55 PM):** They are, huh? 

**Mickey (8:56 PM):** 🖕 Fuck you, I’m just sayin

 **Ian (8:56 PM):** 😉

 **Ian (8:56 PM):** They might be free, but the guys in the Boystown alleys have none of my skill or charm.

 **Mickey (8:56 PM):** Bet they also don’t have your ego

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** 4.9 rating.

 **Mickey (8:57 PM):** Still don’t see how

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** You’re the most annoying motherfucker I know

 **Ian (8:58 PM):** Skill. Charm. 😎

 **Ian (8:58 PM):** Give it time, Mickey. You’re gonna rate me all 5s after five months.

 **Mickey (8:59 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian smiles at his phone and knocks back the rest of his beer. 

They chat casually for another twenty minutes or so as Ian chugs some water and eats two Hot Pockets for dinner.

There’s a lull, then, and Ian takes the time to read back through the earlier parts of their conversation. Mickey’d somehow completely dodged giving any sort of direct answer or confirmation as to his life and relationship situation, but based on his opinion of Ian’s clients, it’s probably pretty safe to assume he’s not currently engaged and expecting his first child.

But well, Mickey’s been teasing him about being annoying for the past ten minutes, and Ian thinks he can up the ante a little before they part ways for the night. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:22 PM):** You never did answer my question.

 **Mickey (9:22 PM):** What question

 **Ian (9:22 PM):** Got a valentine?

\------------------------

He cringes the second he sends it. It sounded way less flirty in his head--sounded teasing and purposely annoying. 

But fuck, now Mickey’s going to think he’s trying something.

He doesn’t reply for a couple of minutes, and Ian considers sending an emoji to lighten the mood, to shift the tone away from a place he desperately doesn’t want to go with some guy he doesn’t know.

But just as he’s scrolling through the emoji keyboard, looking for something fitting, something funny, Mickey replies.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:25 PM):** Nah

\------------------------

Ian bites his lip.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:25 PM):** Cool.

\------------------------

He stares at the messages for a moment, a little surprised by the fact that Mickey answered seriously. 

There’s a tingle creeping up his spine, tickling him, making him shift around on the couch cushion. And before too much time passes that it makes things awkward, Ian quickly types

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:26 PM):** I was honestly expecting you to fuck with me again.

 **Mickey (9:27 PM):** That’s amateur shit

 **Mickey (9:27 PM):** Can’t do it every time or it’ll stop workin

 **Ian (9:27 PM):** Smart.

 **Mickey (9:28 PM):** Skill. Charm. 😎

 **Ian (9:28 PM):** Wow.  
\------------------------

When they sign off for the night, Ian’s smiling as he munches a heart-shaped Reese’s Cup.

\---  
\---

Up to this point, Ian and Mickey’s chats are short, well-defined conversations with clear beginnings and ends. They’re not scheduled, but they may as well be, their communications packaged, wrapped in a bow, and neatly fit into unintentional few-times-per-week timeslots.

But sometime within their fifth week of talking, things change. 

Ian’s shaving at the sink, cutting tidy swaths through the foam on his jaw and, half-done, decides to snap a selfie and send it to Mickey. He looks stupid, but he sort of likes that about the picture. Sort of wants to make Mickey laugh.

The response comes immediately, and Ian smiles at Mickey’s grumpiness, somehow able to hear the sound of it even though he’s never heard him before.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (7:58 AM):** Why are you so fuckin weird

\------------------------

With a huff of laughter out his nose, Ian sets down his razor, gets both thumbs on the keyboard, and types

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:58 AM):** I can stop sending them any time you want. 😎 All you gotta do is ask.

\------------------------

It takes Mickey nearly three hours to reply to that, and even then, he doesn’t actually directly address Ian’s message.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:41 AM):** You’re annoying

 **Ian (10:42 AM):** 😏

\------------------------

The multiple texts sent outside their normal, clearly-defined conversation hours sets something off, apparently, as suddenly, they’re IMing most days of the week, most hours of the day, just sending a few messages at a time rather than devoting their attention to one longer session.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:13 AM):** On your way to work?

 **Mickey (8:13 AM):** Yeah

 **Ian (8:14 AM):** Cool. Have a good day. 👍

 **Mickey (10:03 AM):** Did you want something

 **Ian (10:44 AM):** Nah. Just wanted to say hi.

 **Mickey (10:45 AM):** Yeah ok

 **Mickey (12:01 PM):** Here’s a picture just for you

 **Ian (12:02 PM):** Is that cat puke?!

 **Mickey (12:02 PM):** Yes and it’s your fault

 **Mickey (12:03 PM):** Had to clean that shit up first thing this morning

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** How’s it my fault? 🤨

 **Mickey (12:03 PM):** You made me take him

 **Ian (12:04 PM):** I didn’t make you do anything, Mickey. Your good heart made you take him. 😉

 **Mickey (1:19 PM):** Gross

 **Ian (1:55 PM):** Mmhm. 😏

 **Mickey (2:02 PM):** Stop bein so annoying

 **Mickey (2:02 PM):** And stop using so many emojis

 **Ian (2:03 PM):** Anything else, sir?

 **Mickey (2:03 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (2:04 PM):** Is that an emoji I see? 🤔

 **Ian (3:58 PM):** As sincere thanks for the cat puke picture, enjoy this one of my nephew’s puke on my shoulder!

 **Mickey (4:42 PM):** Was he annoyed by you too

 **Mickey (4:42 PM):** Did you tell him he had a good heart

 **Ian (5:25 PM):** Every damn day. 😎

 **Mickey (5:26 PM):** Every damn day you annoy him?

 **Ian (5:26 PM):** 🖕 He’s my buddy.

 **Mickey (5:27 PM):** So you annoy him every damn day

 **Ian (5:27 PM):** You’re a dick!

 **Mickey (5:27 PM):** Really great comeback there

 **Ian (5:28 PM):** Here’s an even better one:

 **Ian (5:28 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

 **Mickey (5:29 PM):** Jesus christ

 **Mickey (5:29 PM):** Are you 12

 **Ian (6:19 PM):** Yes, I’m 12. Hello. I’m gonna call Dateline.

 **Ian (6:19 PM):** Chris Hansen, where are you?

 **Mickey (6:24 PM):** Dumbass

 **Ian (6:28 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (9:02 PM):** Hey.

 **Mickey (9:02 PM):** Yo

\------------------------

For the first time in _years_ \--since he was a kid, practically--Ian feels a shell of warmth crack open in his chest. Feels a smile blooming on his lips at random moments throughout the day. He has someone to talk to, joke with, laugh at on the L ride home as he sits slouched in the back, reading their messages from the day and thinking of an excuse to message Mickey again.

He’s thinking of fucking _excuses_.

There’s a kick to his heart when he considers it, knowing he shouldn’t be doing this shit. There are supposed to be clearly-defined boundaries between a worker and a client. It’s in the goddamn PDF handbook, after all. But Ian can’t help but think that it’s different now because they’re _friends_ , sort of. Maybe? 

No, they’re definitely friends. 

Ian takes pictures of funny shit he sees on his way to and from work so he can send them to Mickey later. You don’t do that for clients. You don’t do that for acquaintances. Ian and Mickey are _friends_.

But he still worries a little, thumb scrolling through their hundreds of messages. He notices that Mickey hardly ever messages him first. He notices that their conversations always veer toward Ian trying his best to playfully bug the hell out of Mickey and Mickey calling Ian variations on _dick_ and _annoying motherfucker_.

And he knows they’re just fucking around. He knows that Mickey probably knows that he’s not _actually_ that annoying or chatty or fun, really. In real life, Ian’s sometimes withdrawn and quiet. Can be aggressive when he wants to be. Likes to play around with his siblings but can sometimes be just as much an asshole as anybody else--enough, in fact, that he could probably give Mickey a run for his money on a bad day.

He _knows that_. But it doesn’t stop him from wondering one night, when they’re talking about Ian’s red Air Force 1s, whether he’s annoying Mickey in a way that’s not actually as funny as it feels.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** Fuckin clown ass shoes

 **Ian (8:14 PM):** I can’t believe you said that, Mickey. 😢 🤡

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** I can’t believe you’re a grown man who wears red shoes

 **Ian (8:15 PM):** Ha ha. 😑 What kind of shoes do you wear? 🤡

 **Mickey (8:15 PM):** Not those

 **Ian (8:15 PM):** Well until you send me a picture of your apparently ultra fashionable self, I’ll happily wear my “clown shoes” in peace. 

**Ian (8:16 PM):** 🤡

 **Mickey (8:16 PM):** What did I do to deserve this

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** Signed up for a paid adult subscription service. 🤡

 **Mickey (8:17 PM):** I was right about not talkin to you for the first couple weeks

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** You mean you were right about putting $7 in my pocket every week not to talk to you? 🤡

 **Mickey (8:18 PM):** Yeah

 **Mickey (8:18 PM):** Think I was onto something. Do you take checks

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** How much will buy your silence

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** Too late, now. 🤡

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** Fuckin nightmare

\------------------------

Ian considers sending him an entire row of clown emojis. But just as he has them typed in, ready to go, he pauses. Bites his lip.

Mickey’s hard to read. They’re joking right now, right? Mickey doesn’t _really_ think Ian’s a nightmare. He could easily stop responding. Could turn off his message notifications if he wanted.

But well, maybe it’s a good idea to check. Mickey’s his client, after all, and Ian should probably chill out on occasion if he wants to keep him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:22 PM):** Hey.

 **Mickey (8:22 PM):** ?

 **Ian (8:23 PM):** I know we have a playful teasing thing going, but please tell me if I'm ever actually getting on your nerves. I will definitely stop and/or rein it in a little.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply for the longest time, and it makes Ian’s stomach sour.

He overthinks shit sometimes, his brain latching onto something often completely innocuous and refusing to let go until he has his answer or until he’s thought it to death. Until it tires him out and makes him feel sick. 

Sometimes, too, he _under_ thinks, letting his impulses get the better of him, succumbing to his emotions in a way that makes his mind foggy and his tongue quick. 

All he wants to be able to do in his life is just think normally--prevent his head from constantly vacillating between too much and too little. He hates that it’s a running theme with him in all aspects of his life: this push and pull he wants no part of.

He’s about to message Mickey again, considering going with his original plan of the clown emojis because he’s fairly sure he just made shit weird for no reason, when the reply comes in.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:28 PM):** Whatever man

\------------------------

Mickey might as well have sent _mood killer_ because that’s exactly what Ian’s message was. And well, Mickey’s response doesn’t exactly answer the implied question in Ian’s initial request.

He erases the row of clown emojis and sends a 👍 instead, opting to be more professional.

It’s weird having a relationship like this with a client. Ian’s aware of the innate artificiality of their connection. Even if he thinks he and Mickey are genuinely _friends_ , sort of, there’s always the umbrella of kestrel hanging over them, casting a shadow on Ian’s occasional daydreams of meeting up with Mickey for coffee one day or hanging out with him at a bar.

It makes him uncomfortable, sometimes, when he considers how much he thinks about Mickey, how much he cares about what Mickey thinks about _him_. Mickey’s his client, and he’s paying Ian money, and Ian knows next to nothing about him.

But that doesn’t stop him from checking his messages a couple times an hour, just to see if Mickey’s sent one. Doesn’t stop him from tapping that clown emoji again when it’s several hours later and they’ve gotten past the weirdness Ian accidentally introduced into their conversation. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:43 PM):** Anyway, I’m probably wearing my clown shoes tomorrow. I’ll be sure to send you pictures. 🤡

 **Mickey (10:43 PM):** Goddammit Ian

\------------------------

When it comes down to it, Ian _likes_ him, and he wants Mickey to like him, too, even though he knows he shouldn’t be trying to be friends with a client. He should be trying to weasel as much money out of him as he can. Should be trying to tame him, to get him to eat out of the palm of his hand so his work with kestrel can continue to be easy. So he can continue to keep as detached from it as possible, his dealings with clients simple transactions that require very little after-hours thought.

He shouldn’t be checking mickm7189’s Instagram profile a few times a week, stupidly living in hope that one day, a picture will appear.

\---  
\---

On the last Tuesday in February, Ian stays over at Lip’s house.

The two of them had been putting some last touches on the walls, had painted Freddie’s room Peek-A-Blue, and then worked together to fold up all the drop cloths, clean and put away the brushes, and give the floors a good sweep and mop.

They’d worked until after the dinner hour and then had smoked a blunt while eating grossly delicious delivery nachos and laughing about random shit until midnight.

Ian had planned to go home, but the nachos and weed combined with his meds had made him woozy, and without so much as a couch to rest on, he and Lip had ended up sleeping head-to-toe on the cramped twin bed in the bedroom Lip used when he stayed too late working.

It’s not like they hadn’t slept like that over the years. They’d even gone a while as small children sleeping in the same bed every night. But they’re twenty-somethings with twenty-somethings bodies, and Ian wakes what feels like a thousand times that night to complain sleepily, “Get your stupid fucking feet out of my face.”

He gets up to pee at four, having been woken from a fitful slumber by Lip kneeing him in the chest, and when he returns, he grabs his phone to check his notifications. He’d posted several pictures of the completed house interior on Instagram before getting in bed, feeling stupidly proud of how it’d turned out in the end and genuinely happy for his brother.

He’s expecting about fifteen likes, a couple comments from his siblings, maybe a follow notification from one of the random gay spam bots that always seem to find his profile. What he isn’t at all expecting is to find a notification alerting him that mickm7189 has not only accepted his follow request but has also followed him.

Ian’s heart pounds so hard he swears he can hear it over the soft wheezes of Lip’s snores.

Hurriedly, he taps open mickm7189’s profile and sees it’s entirely blank save for a Bon Jovi profile picture.

Bon fucking Jovi. It’s _gotta_ be Mickey.

 _Fuck_. What does he do? And more importantly, how in the _actual_ hell did Mickey find him?

Ian lies stretched out on his back, Lip’s foot pressed against his shoulder, and bounces his thumbs absently against the screen of his phone, considering what to do. Does he send him a DM? 

He taps the message button on Mickey’s profile and rubs his index finger against his brow, thinking. What can he even say?

_Hey. Is this Mickey?_

_What’s up?_

_How did you find me?_

😎

He types each of these messages, erasing them one after the other, before settling with something he feels sets a more confident, playful tone. 

Blowing out a breath, he rereads the message once, twice, and then taps the send button.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
Knew it, bitch. 😏

\------------------------

 _Immediately_ , he presses his thumb to the message and holds it down until the unsend option appears. And he’s a fraction of a second away from unsending it when Lip starfishes one of his legs and nearly hits him in the balls.

“Watch it,” he grumbles, shoving Lip’s leg away in irritation and rolling onto his side. “Fucking tiny bed.”

He tries to go back to sleep, but Lip’s return kick combined with the thought of the DM burning a hole in his brain makes it nearly impossible. 

At six, Ian gets up, puts on his coat, and snags a now room-temperature Pipeline Punch from the Dollar General bag he’d brought over. He yells goodbye to Lip, who groggily climbs out of bed and pulls out a cigarette.

He’s not supposed to be smoking, but Ian’s not going to say anything. Beats the smell of artificial creme brulee chemical liquid anyday.

“You’re the worst bed mate, man,” Lip mouths around his cigarette, lighting up. 

After watching him take the initial drag, Ian holds out his fingers in a v-shape, silently asking for a pull, and rolls his eyes. “Hey, at least you got some fuckin’ sleep.”

Lip hands him the cigarette and watches Ian as he takes a hard drag.

“Who were you textin’ last night?” he asks, an amused lilt to his voice.

Ian’s belly flips, and suddenly, the cigarette combined with the Monster combined with the lack of sleep makes his stomach churn.

He hands the cigarette back and shrugs, lips pursed to the side as he blows the smoke out into the air. “Just checkin’ Instagram.”

“ _No_ , you were texting somebody.”

Ian was never going to tell Lip about his friendship with Mickey. The last time they’d talked about it, Lip had firmly told him to give him the boot.

But the thing about Lip--the thing about him ever since they were _kids_ \--is that he always seems to be able to get Ian to confess to shit. Ian can keep stuff from him for a while but not forever, everything sort of tumbling out one way or another, whether it’s in their childhood bedroom before they fall asleep, in a stolen car borrowed from Fiona’s old boyfriend, in the dark as they stretch out on the floor and smoke weed, or on a cold, gray morning over a cigarette and energy drink.

“Y’know that client I have that found me on Instagram?”

To his credit, Lip doesn’t actually call Ian an idiot after he’s told him the story. He does smile, though, this amused-as-fuck glint in his eye as he smokes his cigarette down to the filter.

“Do what you gotta do,” he says, crushing the cigarette in an ashtray on the fireplace mantle. “You know my opinion.”

Ian blows out a breath and shrugs. “Yeah, well. Kinda too late.”

“You gonna fuck him?”

“It’s not like that. He’s just…” Ian takes a sip of his energy drink and rubs at the back of his neck, pulling at the muscles tight from a night of tossing and turning. “I dunno. We’re friends.”

Lip raises an eyebrow at him.

The thing about saying the word out loud-- _friends_ \--is that it suddenly feels strangely _right_. _Of course_ they’re friends, and of course friends would follow each other on Instagram.

They’d send teasing DMs that said, “Knew it, bitch. 😏,” and they wouldn’t give a fuck about doing it because that’s what friends do.

Fine. They’re friends.

Ian’s committed to not feeling weird about it.

He snatches the flattened pack of cigarettes Lip has tucked into the front pocket of his shirt, pulls one out, and uses his own Bic to light it.

“Bye,” he says, patting his brother on the shoulder and heading toward the door. “Thanks for the shitty night.”

“Yeah, fuck you.”

Ian flips him off with both fingers and leaves, cigarette pinched between his lips.

It’s a thirty minute walk to his apartment, and Ian would usually get an Uber or Lyft on frigid mornings like this, if only to keep his lips from turning blue. This morning, though, he steps onto the sidewalk and looks up at the rising sun and, with a shrug, decides he’d rather walk.

By the time he’s almost home, the sun has risen enough to shine directly on his face, the world looking golden and beautiful for what he knows will be for only a limited time.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a selfie, doing his best to keep his eyes open in the bright light, and spends the rest of the walk trying to capture a few good sunrise photos.

When he arrives home, he takes a shower, swallows down his meds with the remainder of his Monster--an act Mara would flip her shit over--and eats a chorizo breakfast bowl while putting together an Instagram post to show off his pretty damn good sunrise photos.

 _Getting no sleep isn’t so bad when mornings are like this_ , he types, creating a set of the best shots of the bunch.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about Mickey as he prepared the post. Mickey, his _friend_.

Fuck, he’s got to get a grip.

Before he does, however, Ian tags Mickey in the last sunrise photo. 

It’s impulsive, he knows--something he probably shouldn’t do because there’s no reason for it, and Mickey’ll probably think he’s even more of a headcase than he already does.

But something about calling Mickey his _friend_ out loud to Lip gave him a jolt of energy that makes him feel a little wild, like his brain’s been injected with a truckload of serotonin he’s been lacking for months.

He and Mickey are friends. They joke and tease and try to get on each other’s nerves. They’re _friends_.

Ian bites his lip and makes the post, and he may or may not spend the next hour checking his phone every five minutes to see if Mickey’s liked the photo.

\---  
\---

Not only does Mickey _not_ like the photo, but Ian doesn’t hear a word out of him for three days.

He sends him a few messages as normal--messages the Mickey of late would’ve responded to within half an hour--but this time, there’s nothing. 

No kestrel messages, no reply to his Instagram DM, no likes on his pictures.

Ian smokes three cigarettes in a row on Friday night, chugs half a beer-- _not_ good--and spends an embarrassing hour trying to Internet stalk Mickey by searching every social media site he can think of for _mickm7189_.

Still nothing. He’s a fucking ghost.

And now Ian’s _worried_ because this isn’t the first couple weeks after they started talking. This is six weeks later, and they’ve racked up at least fifty messages per day ten days in a row.

 _Fuck_. Was he being weird? Was the DM weird? Did Ian go momentarily crazy when he tagged Mickey in that sunrise photo?

But shit, it’s not like it’s _all_ his fault. Mickey accepted his follow request _and_ followed Ian back mere hours before. What was Ian supposed to do other than DM him? And the tagged photo had just been for fun, sort of--his way of acknowledging Mickey’s existence.

Maybe he was also hoping that Mickey would message him about it. Would like the photo.

He swipes back over to Instagram and checks out Mickey’s profile again. 

Is it possible that mickm7189 _isn’t_ Mickey? Has it been an insane coincidence from the beginning, some random person accidentally liking Ian’s photo, then Ian practically getting on their ass like a bloodhound and requesting them on Instagram? Eventually sending them a weird message calling them a bitch? Tagging them in a photo?

 _Surely_ not. That would be ridiculous. And it still wouldn’t explain Mickey’s three days of silence.

But maybe Mickey hasn’t been on Instagram? Maybe his phone’s glitched out and he isn’t getting notifications at all?

Ian’s aware that he’s reaching. 

He’s reaching _so hard_ , but in a foolish act of emotional desperation, he takes a screenshot of his sunset Instagram post and sends it to Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:03 PM):** Did you see this?

\------------------------

It occurs to him an hour later that he might have a tiny crush on Mickey.

He’s touching himself in bed, not so much trying to get off as to relieve a bit of stress. He’s just sort of running his fingers over his dick, mind running through all the things that usually get him going, when he suddenly thinks about the faceless, formless person he knows as Mickey having sex.

What’s this sarcastic, grumpy guy like when he’s feeling good? Is he tough ‘til the end--hard-edged, rough, quick? Or does he get soft when he’s with someone he likes?

It’s an idle thought, really, and Ian’s not enough of a perv to get hard thinking about a shapeless blob. But he does realize that it’s probably not customary to think about your friends that way. Not that Ian’s had a lot of gay male friends. 

Maybe he likes Mickey a little bit. Maybe he thinks his personality’s attractive because he’s apparently into assholes. Maybe Ian just needs to get laid by someone he’s actually into, and his mind’s dragging Mickey into the equation because he’s the closest thing he’s got to someone he likes.

Whatever the reason, after Ian comes that night--a slow, simmering orgasm that warms his belly and curls his toes--he thinks about Mickey messaging him something sweet--something beyond those casual slips that show Ian there’s kindness behind that hard shell.

He rolls his eyes at himself after checking his phone for the last time that night and finding Mickey still hasn’t responded to any of his messages. 

He’s lost his fucking mind.

\---  
\---

Ian has three messages the next morning--all from Bobby, trying for an after-hours bit of sexting that Ian promptly ignores. None from Mickey.

He takes a shower and makes coffee. Takes his meds with his first hot gulp and smirks when he thinks about how Mara would bust his kneecaps if she were aware of the sheer amount of caffeine he consumes in a day.

It’s bad for him, he knows. Has been potentially shown to influence mania. Yadda, yadda. He cares but he doesn’t. He’s alright so far.

He puts on [some music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qdqCuXcLy4), scrambles three eggs, then douses them in ketchup and sets in to eat while checking his social media accounts.

Not much has happened since he’d gone to bed last night, so he just likes a couple photos on Instagram and then swipes back over to kestrel to check his schedule for the upcoming week.

Ken’s scheduled a cam session on Tuesday, then both Thursday and Friday Ian has in-person dates with Andrew, a dentist he’s fucked a couple times, and a new guy named Brent. Ian rarely has more than one Platinum session per week, so this is good for him--an extra few hundred in his paycheck.

He finishes up his eggs, tapping around the app for a bit, and then, just as he’s about to close out of it and take his plate to the sink, he switches back over to the chat client.

Mickey, who used to be at the bottom of his list due to lack of contact frequency, is now at the very top. 

And _fuck_ , he’s online, the lightbulb beside his name lit green.

Without even sparing a second to think about what he’s doing, Ian taps his name and sends a message that’ll make him cringe when he looks back on it later.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** MICKEY.

 **Mickey (10:13 AM):** Jesus Christ, calm down. What?

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Just wondering if you'd died and all.

 **Mickey (10:14 AM):** Can't a guy be fuckin busy

 **Ian (10:14 AM):** Sure. 👍

\------------------------

He knows the pettiness comes out in his _Sure. 👍_ , but he can’t help it. It’s absolutely the most natural thing he can think to say, and he doesn’t even really feel bad about it.

He doesn’t feel bad, but he absolutely understands that he shouldn’t be thinking this way. Mickey is paying _him_ for his services, not the other way around, and therefore, it only makes sense that Mickey would get to dictate when he does or doesn’t talk to Ian.

But they’re _friends_ , and Ian thinks it shouldn’t be too much to ask for Mickey to not apparently actively avoid him for days on end, even though he feels like a weirdo for actually wanting to talk to his client in any way past what it takes to make a buck. It’s inappropriate of him, and it’s also ridiculous, frankly, because he has no idea what the guy even looks like. How can you have a fuckin’ middle school crush on someone you’ve never even seen?

And plus, it’s not like Ian has any rights to him. He doesn’t know _shit_ about him. Mickey could be a goddamn secret service agent needing to mysteriously disappear for a few days for all he knows. He could be a fucking _priest_ who has a new religious crisis a couple times a month and stops himself from talking to Ian for fear of eternal damnation.

Fuck, he might just not like Ian as much as Ian likes him.

 _That_ thought makes him feel bad about his _Sure. 👍_

But shit, he _followed him on Instagram_. It would be one thing if he’d simply accepted Ian’s follow request and moved on. Instead, he’d followed him back and now has all of Ian’s pictures showing up on his feed.

At least, Ian thinks he does. It’s _gotta_ be him.

Pressing his lips together, Ian types

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:22 AM):** Hey. Are you “mickm7189” on Instagram?

\------------------------

He rubs the side of his index finger back and forth across his eyebrow as he waits for what feels like an hour for Mickey to answer.

Fuck, what if it isn’t him? What if it isn’t him and Mickey suddenly thinks Ian’s trying to search for him or something?

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:26 AM):** Yeah.

\------------------------

Ian blows out a breath. 

Okay.

Obviously, it’s him. Of course. He strokes his thumbs across the rubber of his phone case and thinks of what to say.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:27 AM):** Got it.

 **Ian (10:28 AM):** Just wondering, 'cause you haven't commented or liked anything. Did you get my DM?

 **Mickey (10:28 AM):** Yeah I got it.

 **Ian (10:29 AM):** ...cool. 🤨

\------------------------

Ian half wants to jokingly ask whether he’s currently messaging with an imposter, as Mickey’s using ending punctuation for the first time he can remember.

Six hours later, when Mickey hasn’t responded to his last message and Ian’s nursing an Old Style and trying but failing to pay attention to _Love is Blind_ on Netflix, he wishes he’d just done it. At least then maybe there wouldn’t be this weird cloud hanging over them.

He takes a slow sip of his beer and grabs his phone, scrolling through his Instagram feed and then tapping over to Mickey’s ever-blank profile. He squints at the profile photo of Jon Bon Jovi and wonders why Mickey’s such a dork.

That makes him smile a little, even through the fog of his confusion, and he can’t help but pull back up their chat thread on kestrel.

If Mickey doesn’t reply to this, he thinks, typing in a message, he’ll just focus his attention elsewhere. He should probably do that anyway.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:51 PM):** Where’s Jovi?

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply for long enough that Ian tosses his phone onto the couch cushion and unpauses Netflix.

Fine, Mickey. Be that way.

But just as he’s about to stretch out, feet propped up on the coffee table, and allow himself to get engrossed in the show, his phone chimes with a notification alert.

It’s Mickey.

He’s sent a cute-ass picture of Jovi, who’s stretched out on his back, a tiny, purple toy mouse clutched in his claws, mouth open and teeth exposed, about to bite at it.

Ian’s never really cared one way or another about cats, always preferring dopy, lovable dogs with tons of energy. But he has to admit Jovi’s cute--all black with a small white patch at his chest and a triangular notch cut out of his ear. A sweet, petite face and grape-green eyes.

Ian smiles as he examines the picture and, well. Jovi-pic-for-Ian-pic.

He tilts back his beer, holds out his phone, and snaps a picture of him taking a drink with an exasperated look on his face.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:07 PM):** You’re driving me to drink.

\------------------------

He hopes it makes Mickey smile. Hopes it’s a bit of a peace offering--the start of a truce.

\---  
\---

Ian tries to restrain himself a little more over the next couple days, holding back from bombarding Mickey with obnoxious messages for no good reason.

They still communicate, but Ian usually lets Mickey message first, which may or may not happen depending on Mickey’s apparent mood.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:11 PM):** Sup

 **Ian (8:11 PM):** Hey.

 **Mickey (8:12 PM):** You never did send me a picture of you wearing your clown shoes

 **Ian (8:12 PM):** 🤨

 **Ian (8:12 PM):** Do you want me to send you some? (🤡?)

 **Mickey (8:13 PM):** Nah I was just sayin

 **Ian (8:13 PM):** You sure? 

**Ian (8:13 PM):** I can go put them on and take a couple if you’re into it?

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** Gross, fuck no, it ain’t a weird fetish thing. They’re ugly is what I was sayin

 **Ian (8:14 PM):** Mmhm.

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** 🖕 Fuck off

\------------------------

Throughout the next several days, Ian doesn’t mention Instagram, and he certainly doesn’t attempt to DM Mickey or tag him in anything.

Their kestrel messages, however, do slowly regain a sense of normalcy, and by Wednesday, they’re at least mostly back to their regularly scheduled IM-all-day routine, even if Ian _is_ trying to be more cautious about the way in which he interacts with Mickey, careful not to bug him too much.

He gets home from work late Wednesday night, having stayed over to go on a call that came in right at the end of his shift.

He’s exhausted, body weary, under-eyes dark, hair a disheveled mess. Ian’s mostly free for the night, save for any messages his clients decide to send him, so he takes a hot bath that turns his skin pink and tender.

He likes baths, though he doesn’t take them very often. His shitty tub’s got a fucked up overflow drain that leaks all over the floor if any water gets in it, so he has to duct tape the drain closed before he fills the tub. That’s a pain in the ass, and his water pressure’s terrible, anyway, the tub taking literally ten minutes to fill. 

Overall, baths usually aren’t worth it. Tonight, though, Ian’s just this side of achy, he’s half-frozen from the walk from the L, and he wants nothing more than to relax in water just shy of boiling.

He stretches out in the tub, bare toes pressed up on either side of the overflow drain, and closes his eyes. The heat engulfs him, making his cold fingers tingle with the quick warm-up, making his muscles feel loose and soft.

Ian’s dozing a little when he hears his phone go off from where it’s sitting on the floor by the tub. Yawning, he stretches over the side and grabs it.

He’s expecting it to be a message from Bobby, who won’t let him have even an ounce of peace. But when he sees Mickey’s name on the notification, his heart gives a little kick that only gets harder when he opens the message and sees Mickey’s sent him a picture.

It’s of Jovi, looking like a maniac, blurred from movement as he attempts to bite the hand he has gripped in his claws.

The _hand_.

It’s probably dumb how much Ian’s heart speeds at the simple image of a human hand. But shit, this is _Mickey’s_ hand, and Ian hasn’t before seen a single part of him besides his jean-clad thigh in the photo he’d sent of Jovi at the park.

The hand is pressed flat against the cat’s belly and chest. The skin is fair and fingers are a little short but still thin--petite, really, his hand small and soft-looking but with what looks like a couple fight-scars.

And the _tattoos_. On each knuckle, inked crudely as if by an amateur, are the letters spelling out F-U-C-K.

What a badass. Southside, huh.

Ian rubs his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip and tries to hold back a smile.

Part of him had secretly wondered if Mickey weren’t soft and straight-laced, pretending to be a sarcastic punk online. He didn’t _actually_ believe that, but it’s hard to imagine a tough-as-nails Southside kid growing up to join a gay subscription sex app.

Ian knew a lot of tough-as-nails Southside kids back in the day, but he can’t remember a gay one.

He scratches at his chin and, lips tilting upward at the corners, types

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:24 PM):** Is that a hand I see?

 **Ian (10:25 PM):** A real, human Mickey hand?

\------------------------

Ian doesn’t mean to be weird, but judging by the fact that it takes multiple minutes for Mickey to respond, he thinks he has been, anyway. 

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:27 PM):** What are you talking about

 **Ian (10:28 PM):** Y'know, this is actually the first time I've seen any part of you.

 **Ian (10:28 PM):** And what's with the “FUCK” tattoos?

 **Mickey (10:30 PM):** Other hand says U-UP

 **Ian (10:31 PM):** Mm, so you are Southside.

 **Mickey (10:32 PM):** You doubted?

 **Ian (10:32 PM):** No, just... I dunno. 😏

\------------------------

Ian smirks, imagining the shadowed, detail-less shape of Mickey’s face when he tells him about what he’s considered.

It’s just a baseless hunch, but he bets he looks like an angry kitten.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:33 PM):** What's that face for

 **Ian (10:33 PM):** I was just sort of expecting to meet up with you one day and have you be like, former altar boy, sweet, well-meaning nerd pretending to be a badass online.

 **Mickey (10:34 PM):** What

\------------------------

Ian hadn’t meant to presume, and he hadn’t meant to bring up their potential future use of the app, and really, he just hadn’t meant to use any of those _meet up with you one day_ words at all.

He feels his cheeks get hot, burning up just beneath his eyes, and he wipes his hand over his mouth.

Ian decides to ignore the slip and focus on Mickey: Potential Former Altar Boy Whom Ian Has Never Seen.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:35 PM):** Mickey, we've been messaging for well over a month, and I've sent more pictures of myself to you than probably anyone else in my entire life. But I have absolutely no idea what you look like.

 **Ian (10:35 PM):** Aside from “black hair, blue eyes, okay shape,” which could literally be anyone.

 **Ian (10:36 PM):** And it's cool, by the way. You don't ever have to send me a picture. I'm just talking.

\------------------------

And he _is_ just talking, though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t really want to see a picture of him. The knuckle tats had given him a little bit of a jolt up his spine, settling as a tingling, electric warmth in his cheeks. 

The list of guys he’s had sex with for fun may not show it, but Ian’s got a bit of a thing for a bad boy, and what’s badder than a loud and proud FUCK U-UP?

Shit, he wants to _see his face_.

Would it be weird of him to ask for it? _Hey. Will you send me a picture of your face? I’d really like to see it._

He scoffs at the thought and pushes himself up out of the bath, the water having rapidly cooled and left him with goosebumps up and down his arms.

Ian dries off, heads to the bedroom, and pulls on some blue-check boxers. He rakes his fingers through his hair and drops down on his bed with his phone.

 _Really not done talking to you yet, Mickey_ , he thinks, typing in his next message.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:44 PM):** So. Tell me about your tattoos?

\------------------------

Due to the fact that it takes four minutes for Mickey to reply with a simple answer, Ian can tell Mickey’s nervous about talking about himself.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:49 PM):** Family thing I guess.

 **Mickey (10:50 PM):** Brothers got em, dad did.

\------------------------

Southside through and through. Ian’s known a couple families like that in his day, the groups ganglike, a collective whole of violence, drugs, and petty crime, children raised as nothing less than employees to a boss of a father, who’d beat the shit out of them for dissent.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:52 PM):** Oh yeah? Do they all say “FUCK U-UP?”

 **Mickey (10:53 PM):** Nah, brothers got SMAK DOWN and BEAT DOWN. Dad's was ASSS HOLE which was real fuckin appropriate.

 **Ian (10:55 PM):** Gotcha.

\------------------------

Exactly what he thought, then. Ian chews at his thumbnail and considers what to say next.

Say what you want about the Gallaghers, but Ian hadn’t grown up in violence. Underage smoking, drinking, and shitty parents? Sure. But he never had to worry about fitting in with his family or holding himself to a perceived ideal of Southside men. 

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:58 PM):** So what about you Freckles?

\------------------------

Ian’s face cracks in a grin he doesn’t even try to hold back.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:58 PM):** 😑 Did you just call me Freckles?

 **Mickey (10:59 PM):** Shut up and answer the question

 **Ian (11:01 PM):** 🤨

\------------------------

 _Does he have tattoos._ Ian snorts at the question. 

Yes, he has tattoos. He has two mistakes--one much larger than the other--and his face warms at the thought of sharing this stupid shit with Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:02 PM):** So, I have two. But you're not allowed to say anything.

 **Ian (11:02 PM):** And you can't make fun of me.

 **Mickey (11:03 PM):** No fuckin promises

 **Ian (11:04 PM):** 🙄 They're both kind of long stories.

 **Ian (11:04 PM):** The first is on my side, and it's a bald eagle holding a machine gun.

 **Ian (11:05 PM):** And the second is this like massive pair of titties on my back right shoulder.

 **Mickey (11:05 PM):** What

\------------------------

Ian practically wheezes with laughter at that word, thinking about that dark, formless shadow of Mickey’s face as he’s caught completely off guard by the fact that Ian’s got tits on his back.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:06 PM):** The eagle's a military thing. Was kinda obsessed as a teenager with enlisting. Wanted to go to West Point and all to become an officer. It's a long story. The second was supposed to be a tribute to my mom but the tattoo artist fucked up, so.

 **Mickey (11:08 PM):** That's some fuck up! Jesus Christ

 **Ian (11:09 PM):** You wanna see them? I haven't sent you my beautiful face yet.

\------------------------

Ian blows out a breath after sending his last message, feeling like it’s risky even though it’s nothing different than anything he’s said before. Playful teasing. This time, though, with the added question.

He climbs off his bed and heads back to the bathroom, flipping on the lights and standing before the mirror. 

And for some reason, it just now occurs to him that he’s going to be sending Mickey shirtless pictures.

Ian can do this in his sleep--can send shirtless pics and dick pics and even, once or twice, his discomfort at an all-time high, asshole pics, which he immediately permanently deleted from his camera roll the second they were sent through to the client.

Taking a simple shirtless photo in front of the bathroom mirror is cake. 

But even though he knows he shouldn’t, even though he knows it’s none of his business and that nothing should ever happen and that Mickey’s his fucking _client_ , Ian can’t help but want Mickey to like what he sees.

He thinks about Mickey's tattoos and the fact that he was tickling his cat’s belly while he snaps two pictures--a waist-up, side-angled shot showing the eagle and then a mirror shot of his back.

He crops the one of this back, feeling a little weird about how the angle he’d had to capture due to the mirror shows off most of his bathroom, complete with the wet towel from his bath and the random shit on the countertop.

Then, making his way into the kitchen to grab a drink, he sends the pictures to Mickey along with

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:17 PM):** Nobody really seems to care about the eagle, but that shoulder tattoo's a bitch to explain to people I fuck.

\------------------------

And it really is. Ian likes having his shirt off during sex, the slide of another man’s back--clothed or unclothed--against his bare chest and nipples incredibly arousing to him, but afterward, when he’s getting dressed again, he often gets strange looks as the guy gets a peek at his shoulder.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:18 PM):** You tell your clients that shit?

 **Ian (11:19 PM):** Not usually? I mean, depending on what they request, they may or may not need to see it, anyway.

\------------------------

There’s a few minutes of silence, and it’s enough time to make Ian a little bold. 

Mickey hadn’t reacted one way or the other over his first glimpse of Ian’s body. Normally, he wouldn’t care--would assume his client was into it because it’d been explicitly _asked for_. But Mickey hadn’t asked--Ian had offered--and unlike with his clients, Ian genuinely does give a fuck about Mickey’s reaction.

Even though Ian has no idea what Mickey looks like, is aware that he could be a literal ogre who happens to have a pair of sexy, tattooed hands and a cute cat he clearly loves, it matters _so much_ to him that Mickey doesn’t find him repulsive.

He cracks open a can of Orange Crush, takes a slurp off the foamy top, and considers his options.

Ian could try to skirt around the issue, could ask a question that would get them talking about the photos in a roundabout fashion. 

Or he could do what he ends up doing because he’s sometimes an impulsive motherfucker.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:23 PM):** So what'd you think of the pictures?

 **Mickey (11:24 PM):** Fuck you. You mean what'd I think of your body?

\------------------------

All the air leaves Ian’s lungs at the fact that Mickey picks up on his shit immediately.

And seems _okay_ with the question?

Biting his lip and doing his best to appear playfully wry, replies with

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:24 PM):** Yep. 😎

 **Mickey (11:25 PM):** Dunno man. What am I supposed to say?

 **Ian (11:25 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (11:26 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

The _middle finger_. Ian presses his mouth against the side of his fist to hold back an embarrassing sound. No fucking way would Mickey send the middle finger if he wasn’t into Ian’s picture.

Shit. He hopes he thinks he’s hot.

Ian usually doesn’t worry about that so much, as he works hard as fuck at his body and has never had a single complaint with the exception of the rare guy who’s cancelled on him because he’s ginger and freckly.

But he worries about it with Mickey, inexplicably wanting him to be attracted. Feeling a bit like he’d be crushed to pieces if he thought he was ugly.

Taking a deep breath, Ian decides to just go with his gut and ask a question that’ll once and for all answer the question for sure. If Mickey says no to this, he’ll know he’s most likely not into him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:26 PM):** Do you want more? Like for the future, are shirtless pictures something you're interested in?

\------------------------

Ian’s stomach actually starts to hurt as he waits for Mickey’s answer, his nerves twisting and cramping up inside his gut.

The moment of truth.

He grips at his chin, strokes his fingers across his late-night stubble, and waits, breath held, for an answer.

And when it comes, he feels a flood of warmth and relief.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:28 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (11:28 PM):** 😉

 **Ian (11:28 PM):** Yeah?

 **Mickey (11:29 PM):** What I said 🖕

 **Ian (11:29 PM):** 😎

 **Mickey (11:29 PM):** That’s the worst emoji you use

 **Ian (11:30 PM):** 🤔

 **Mickey (11:30 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (11:30 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (11:30 PM):** No

 **Ian (11:30 PM):** 🤡

 **Mickey (11:31 PM):** See ya

 **Ian (11:31 PM):** 😑

 **Mickey (11:31 PM):** Jesus Christ, you’re a pain in the ass

 **Ian (11:32 PM):** 😟

 **Mickey (11:32 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

 **Ian (11:32 PM):** 😢😢😢😢😢

 **Mickey (11:32 PM):** If I cancel can I get my money back for the rest of the week

 **Ian (11:33 PM):** No because you’re not allowed to cancel. ✌️

 **Mickey (11:33 PM):** We’ll see about that

 **Ian (11:33 PM):** Mmhm. We will. 🙄

 **Mickey (11:33 PM):** Fuck you

 **Ian (11:34 PM):** Do it. Cancel. I dare you.

 **Ian (11:34 PM):** (😊)

 **Mickey (11:34 PM):** You’re the worst

 **Ian (11:34 PM):** 4.9 rating. Skill. Charm. 😎

 **Mickey (11:35 PM):** I’m gonna call your boss

 **Ian (11:35 PM):** Or you could just cancel and rate me all 1s. 😏

 **Mickey (11:35 PM):** Are you like this with all your clients

 **Mickey (11:35 PM):** Cuz I don’t see how you still have a job

 **Ian (11:36 PM):** I’m a valued member of the kestrel team. 😐

 **Mickey (11:36 PM):** Yeah ok

 **Mickey (11:36 PM):** Whatever you fuckin say

\------------------------

Ian sleeps well that night.

And if he checks his phone when he comes back from the bathroom at four, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

It’s also nobody’s business when he pulls the covers up over his face when he sees Mickey’s tipped him six dollars and sixty-six cents.

 _I hate you_ , the message with it says, and Ian thinks life is just fucking great.

\---  
\---

He makes a conscious effort to not go overboard with the shirtless photos, telling himself he’s not going to send more than three per week. He does obsess over them a little, though, checking himself out in the mirror practically every time he’s got his shirt off, asking himself whether he should take a picture.

More often than not, he talks himself out of it, thinking Mickey might be turned off if he sends too many. Ian doesn’t want him to think he’s conceited, and even though they’re talking via a literal sex app, he also doesn’t really want him to think he’s a horndog, trying his best to get in his pants.

So he takes just a few pictures a week, and he keeps them tame--no poses, pants resting on his hips at a normal height, and no unnecessary flexing or _fuck me_ eyes.

Mickey never responds to the photos in any sort of sexual way whatsoever, instead often going with something sarcastic, funny, or commenting on a random aspect of the photo that has nothing to do with Ian’s physical appearance.

It throws him off at first, as he’s so used to receiving _god ur so hot, i want 2 lick ur chest 👅👅👅_ from clients upon sending shirtless photos. But after the first week, Ian realizes that Mickey’s responses make him feel good.

To a picture of him pink and sweaty, hair a mess after going on his morning run, Mickey replies

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:19 AM):** Who was chasing you this time

 **Ian (9:20 AM):** Boys. 😎

 **Mickey (9:20 AM):** Why, did you steal their candy

 **Ian (9:20 AM):** 😂

 **Ian (9:21 AM):** You’re a dick.

\------------------------

To another goofy shaving photo, he says

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:04 AM):** Why did you think I wanna see a pic of you lookin like fuckin Santa Clause

 **Ian (10:04 AM):** *Claus 😏

 **Mickey (10:05 AM):** Who cares, nerdy motherfucker

\------------------------

He gets _butterflies_ , though, at Mickey’s response to the picture he sends on Thursday night.

He’d taken it in bed that morning. Ian’s got his head on his pillow and covers pulled up just past his navel, and he looks a bit of a mess, his face stubbly, eyes puffy, and hair sticking up everywhere. 

When he sends it, he assumes Mickey’s just going to make fun of him again, and it’ll turn into another teasing conversation that’ll make Ian laugh in ways he hasn’t in years, this natural, carefree laughter that feels so damn good to his body and his mind.

It does take Mickey a while to respond--enough time that Ian’s preparing himself for another zinger. What he ends up getting after several minutes, however, makes him pull his legs to his chest where he’s sitting on the couch and press his face against his kneecaps.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:01 PM):** Hey

\------------------------

It’s such a simple thing, and yet Ian can’t help but read it as softness.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:01 PM):** Hey.

\------------------------  
\---

By the time Mickey’s been his client for two months, Ian stops expecting to see his face.

He still hopes that one day he’ll feel comfortable enough to show him, and he hopes that they’ll maybe one day meet up, if only to have coffee or a meal or a fucking beer at a bar while watching the Sox game. But the more Ian talks to Mickey, the more he realizes he doesn’t actually care that much what he looks like.

Maybe he’d care if he actually saw him--he doesn’t know--but now, Ian’s just keenly aware of the fact that he has so much fun talking to Mickey that he could _be_ that sexy-handed ogre and it wouldn’t change his mind about anything.

He has a silly crush like a kid--something not at all sexual, really. Something completely built on emotions.

So even though yeah, he’d love to see Mickey’s face, he’s not at all expecting to see it anytime soon.

Which is why the Instagram notification he receives on Sunday night gives him such a full-body adrenaline rush that he feels lightheaded.

He’s just walked in the door from getting groceries, a large zippered tote bag slung over each shoulder, when he hears the alert chime. 

Quickly, he sets down his bags on the kitchen counter and pulls out his phone.

_mickm7189 just posted a photo_

A fucking _photo_? What?

Rapidly, Ian opens up Instagram, mind going a mile a minute.

He knows it’s probably going to be a stupid picture of Jon Bon Jovi. Maybe it’ll be a picture of Bon Jovi the cat.

When he sees what it actually is, his knees nearly buckle.

It’s Mickey.

His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat, and he has to practically pant in order to get enough oxygen.

It’s Mickey, and he’s cute as fuck.

He’s leaned against the back of his couch, and Jovi’s perched on his shoulder like a little bird.

There he is.

His hair’s a deep black, cut into a low shadow fade with a swoopy bit on top that’s threatening to fall onto his forehead. The lighting of the picture sucks, so Ian can’t really see his eye color that well, but what he can see looks beautiful, framed by dark lashes and topped by a pair of expressive eyebrows that he can perfectly imagine wrinkling this way and that when Ian sends him an annoying message.

God, he’s handsome.

Ian feels like he’s been kicked off a cliff and is currently free-falling down, down toward the bottom, his heart in his belly.

As quickly as he can, he likes the picture and leaves a comment, not caring in the slightest if he comes across obnoxious as hell.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang:** Wait. Mickey. Am I seeing your FACE? Can it be?

\------------------------

He leans, elbows to the kitchen counter, and taps his thumbs restlessly against the sides of his phone, waiting for Mickey to either reply to his comment or message him on kestrel.

After ten minutes, he gives up and puts away his groceries before the frozen food thaws.

\---

Like a madman, Ian keeps checking Mickey’s post every half hour or so to make sure it’s still there--that he hasn’t actually lost his mind--and also to see if he’s had any other comments that he’s replied to.

By eleven, when Ian’s getting ready for bed, he’s mostly abandoned the idea that he’s going to get anything out of him about the picture. Just in case, though, he checks Instagram one last time, stretched out in bed in the dark, and is surprised to find that there’s another comment beneath Ian’s.

\------------------------

 **mandy_milk0vich:** do you have a cat?

\------------------------

Mandy Milk0vich.

 _Mandy Milkovich_?

Holy fucking shit. Ian taps her username at lightning speed and checks out her account.

Mandy Milkovich. Casual friend from high school, Mandy Milkovich. Black and red hair, fishnets, and heavy eyeliner Mandy Milkovich.

Mandy Milkovich who kissed him and bugged the hell out of him about having sex with her for the better part of a month.

Mandy Milkovich, whom he’d come out to because she was threatening to sic her brothers on him.

Her fucking brothers.

Her fucking brother Mickey.

Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

Ian thinks he might throw up or pass out or do any number of over-dramatic things because he’s having over-dramatic thoughts.

It never occurred to him for even one second that he’s been talking to Mickey Milkovich for two months on a gay sex app. He barely even remembered Mickey Milkovich existed, having only known him from afar--mostly as the punk who’d come in and steal Pringles and Gatorade from the Kash and Grab. As the dirty, spikey-haired boy he’d see beating the shit out of some of his classmates at school. As the tiny kid with the bruised and scabbed knees on his Little League team who’d pissed on first base because the coach had yelled at him for tripping another player.

How the hell is this even possible? How is this real?

In what world is a Milkovich--from one of the most notoriously homophobic, racist, violent families in the Southside--not only gay but also actively being playful and teasing with Ian on an app?

In what world is a Milkovich sweet enough for Ian to have the crush of the century on him?

He breathes through pursed lips, trying to control himself, as he scrolls through Mandy’s profile.

Shit, things have changed. For one, she looks like a Northside girl, dressed in cardigans and skirts and solid tights with boots. Her hair’s highlighted, and her copious piercings have been replaced with simple diamond studs in her ears and a tiny one in her nostril. In almost all of her pictures, she’s smiling--with coffee, with a hot guy, sitting behind a laptop and wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed blue-light glasses.

Ian smiles when he scrolls through her pictures and sees Mickey’s liked all of them and commented on several--affectionately sarcastic things that only serve to make Ian’s heart squeeze even harder.

Fuck. He follows her, likes her three most recent pictures, then heads back to Mickey’s picture and replies to her comment.

\------------------------

 **mandy_milk0vich:** do you have a cat?

**insta_iang:** Mandy?

\------------------------

It doesn’t take long for her to reply. Ian’s in the process of trawling the replies on Mandy’s older pictures for anything Mickey might’ve written when he gets the notification.

\------------------------

 **mandy_milk0vich:** ian, holy shit!!

 **insta_iang:** It's been forever! Shit. How are you doing?

 **mandy_milk0vich:** awesome! omg 💛 how are you?? WHERE are you??

 **insta_iang:** I’m good! Still in Southside but in my own apartment. Trying to get the rest of my life going. You?

 **mandy_milk0vich:** living with my bf in mckinley park. ian, we’re adults!!

 **mandy_milk0vich:** i wear leggings and drink psl’s!! 💀

 **insta_iang:** 😂❤️️ I think Mickey’s probably going to kill us for taking over his Instagram replies.

 **mandy_milk0vich:** lemme dm you my number!

 **mandy_milk0vich:** mickey can suck it!! 🖕

 **insta_iang:** Mickey’s probably afraid of you, Mandy, but I don’t think I’m nearly as intimidating. 

**mandy_milk0vich:** mickey will literally just ignore us ian 💛

\------------------------

Mandy DMs him her number, and he smiles as he saves it to his contacts. They continue their conversation through DMs, talking about their lives, their careers, and reminiscing on high school.

It’s after midnight when he finally tells her he needs to hit the sack.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
Gotta go. I’m gonna be useless tomorrow if I don’t get at least 5 hours.

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
ok ok but before you go! why do you and my brother follow each other on insta?

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
he literally doesn’t follow anybody he knows but me and our cousin.

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
also how are you friends with him??

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
wait wait wait. NO WAY. are you guys fucking????!?!?!

\------------------------

Ian had been banking on Mickey being in the closet--had been kicking stories around in his head for how they’d met and become friends in a completely platonic and fifty-percent heterosexual way.

The fact that Mandy so casually asks if they’re fucking gives him pause.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
What? No! Why would we be fucking?

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
oh shit! did he not tell you??

 **insta_iang**  
About…

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
shit! nvm. 

**insta_iang**  
That he’s gay?

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
shit. 

**mandy_milk0vich**  
i’m a terrible person. don’t tell him i told you. please!!

 **insta_iang**  
No, it’s okay. I know. He already told me.

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
thank god!!

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
i mean he’s not in the closet or anything, we all know about it, but i didn’t wanna be that guy y’know?

 **insta_iang**  
😊

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
so how the hell did this happen?

 **insta_iang**  
We ran into each other recently, and we’ve been talking. We’re just friends. Definitely not trying to date (or fuck) your brother.

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
👀 oooookay. interesting.

 **insta_iang**  
Shut up. 😆 I promise.

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
i have so many questions.

 **insta_iang**  
I’ll answer them, but I really do need to go to bed. I have to get up early for work.

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
fine. i’ll let you off easy this time!!

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
it was good talking to you!! 💛 text me whenever you want! 

**insta_iang**  
❤️️

\------------------------

Ian _does_ need to go to sleep, but before he does that, he also needs to send a very important DM.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
So you're Mandy's brother? I can't believe I didn't realize that you're fucking Mickey Milkovich. Of course you are!

\------------------------

Of course he is. 

Now that Ian has that bit of information, everything makes perfect sense. He probably recognized him somehow from his picture, searched him up on Instagram, accidentally liked his photo, and the rest is history.

And then there’s the knuckle tats--fucking Milkoviches--and the reticence to talk about gay shit.

Mandy’d said they all know about him, so that’s interesting. Ian’d love to ask him about it, would love to clear the air and talk about the fact that they’re both gay Southside kids and all the weird baggage that comes with that--that probably impacts Mickey, most of all.

He has trouble falling asleep that night, finally passing out at a little after two, only to wake to the horrible blaring of his alarm at 5:30. 

He checks his phone before he jumps in the shower. Nothing from Mickey.

\---

There’s a lot going on at work that day--a shooting involving multiple people just after eight in the morning that gets Ian involved for hours, then an elderly man who’d been hit by a car during the lunch hour and a couple transport runs that afternoon. Ian’s only able to check his phone for long enough to see that Mickey’s sent him a DM. He convinces himself not to read it until the end of his shift, as he doesn’t want his brain occupied by anything other than his job.

Finally, once he’s at his locker, about to head out for the night, he opens his DMs, allowing himself only then the stomach-twisting feeling of anticipation.

\------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
Small world I guess

\------------------------

Okay. So, not riveting. Ian purses his lips and messages him back.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
I was wondering how the hell you found my insta. Have you known who I was the whole time?

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply until half an hour later, when Ian’s on the L.

\------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
One of your pictures just kinda looked familiar. We didn't really like know each other or anything back then but I remembered you were one of the Gallaghers

 **insta_iang**  
Well, it would've been nice to know.

\------------------------

Ian has complicated feelings toward the situation.

It grates on him just a little that Mickey’s known who he was for potentially a month or more, but he also knows there’s next to no chance that, had he been in Mickey’s situation, he would’ve done anything different.

Mickey seems pretty ballsy, but the sheer size they’d have to be to tell a guy you’re talking to on a gay sex app that you’re Mickey--the Southside neighborhood bully from a family of literal Nazis--would be incalculable.

Ian gets it. He doesn’t _like_ it, but he understands. He only hopes that now that they’re both aware of each other’s last names that Mickey trusts him with himself. Ian won’t hurt him.

\------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
Yeah

 **insta_iang**  
It's cool, though. I get it. Probably would have done the same thing. I sort of remember you. You used to come into the Kash and Grab?

 **insta_iang**  
I can't believe I didn't think about it before because it's not like Mickey's a common name. But wow. Okay. Mandy's brother. Mickey Milkovich.

 **mickm7189**  
Ian Gallagher

 **insta_iang**  
😊

\------------------------

At this point, Ian’s convinced that things will go one of two ways: Mickey’ll open up more, will become a little less guarded, or he’ll shut down and back away because things are so much more real now that they know each other.

Ian hopes with his whole heart that it’s the former.

He tries not to be weird about it, making a conscious choice not to be too upfront about their real world connection, but he does allow himself to breathe a bit, to not worry so much about the forced blanket of propriety tossed over him by kestrel.

He sends Mickey a picture of him smoking. It’s a shirtless photo--one he took a few days prior while he was getting dressed for work--and he’d considered sending it earlier but had changed his mind after he thought about kestrel’s policy.

Ian thinks the policy’s fucking stupid. In theory, workers are allowed to send clients pictures of themselves shoving inanimate objects up their assholes in very extreme and potentially harmful ways and yet they’re not allowed to depict themselves smoking, doing drugs, or intoxicated. 

Glad kestrel cares so much about keeping their reputation as a wholesome, Christian company intact. 

Now that Ian and Mickey technically know each other in real life, Ian makes a secret vow to break that particular policy as much as he can because he doesn’t exactly fear a Milkovich reporting his ass over a cigarette.

So he sends the picture, and with it, writes

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:11 AM):** Morning, Milkovich.

 **Mickey (7:12 AM):** Am I allowed to know you smoke now

 **Ian (7:12 AM):** Yep. That's privileged information, too.

 **Ian (7:13 AM):** And actually, now that I can let my guard down a little, I'm gonna be smoking in every single picture I ever send you from here on out. Like, just packs and packs of cigarettes. Constantly.

 **Mickey (7:14 AM):** Who said you can let your guard down now?

 **Ian (7:14 AM):** Me, bitch. I'm fairly certain you know what I looked like in my awkward stage. There's no going back from that.

 **Mickey (7:14 AM):** I seem to recall bangs

 **Ian (7:15 AM):** 🖕 I was like 15 and mostly closeted. Forgive me for looking like a Mormon.

 **Mickey (7:15 AM):** Now you smoke cigs and wear clown shoes

 **Ian (7:15 AM):** Fuck! 

**Mickey (7:16 AM):** ??

\------------------------

He finally fucking remembers. 

Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Ian sends Mickey a picture he’d taken the other day of him wearing his red hightop Air Force 1s.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:17 AM):** Sorry for getting you hard so early in the morning.

 **Mickey (7:17 AM):** 🖕🖕

 **Mickey (7:17 AM):** These shoes would make any guy’s dick shrivel ya fuckin weirdo

 **Ian (7:18 AM):** Look, Mickey. You can tell me if you have a shoe fetish. I get it. I’ve been doing this job for a while.

 **Mickey (7:18 AM):** Put those ugly ass shoes away and leave me alone

 **Ian (7:18 AM):** Aye, aye. 

**Ian (7:18 AM):** Or should I say: Honk, honk. 🤡

 **Mickey (7:19 AM):** I fuckin hate you

 **Ian (7:19 AM):** Yet you’re still talking to me. 😏

 **Ian (7:19 AM):** And the studio audience goes: Ooooooooh.

 **Mickey (7:20 AM):** Fuck off 🖕🖕🖕

\------------------------

What a good fucking morning.

\---

On the L ride home from work that night, Ian Googles Mickey on his phone but doesn’t find much aside from that his name is Mikhailo Aleksandr, which really does nothing to stop Ian’s crush from settling in amongst his bones. He finds one arrest for possession when he was nineteen, sees he was sentenced to a few months in County but was released after only a couple weeks. Ian knows for a fact he probably has a juvie record longer than he is tall if his vague memories from his childhood are anything to go by, but those wouldn’t be public record.

Other than that, though, there’s nothing other than a private and blank Facebook account, which Ian suspects Mickey uses just like his Instagram.

It’s all fine, of course. Mickey can be a digital ghost all he wants. 

Ian just really wants to see more pictures of him.

He realizes it would be weird as fuck to text Mandy for one, so he doesn’t--impulsive desires be damned. Instead, he sucks it up and commits himself to waiting. He’ll wait for him as long as it takes.

\---

And it doesn’t take long.

That night, after Ian sends his nightly, playfully demanding _Gimme Jovi!_ message, he about loses his mind over the picture Mickey sends back.

Mickey’s in fucking _bed_ , and he’s wearing an army green tank-top and has _stubble_ , and Ian thinks he’ll just die right there--thinks he’ll just melt down into the couch cushions.

The picture cuts off at the bridge of his nose, so Ian can’t see his whole face, but he sees enough of him to know that he’s hot. To know that Ian’s in the worst trouble of his life.

Jovi’s stretched out under his chin like a boneless ferret, and Mickey’s got his U-UP hand buried in his fur, giving him scritches. 

Ian purses his lips and blows out a slow stream of breath. This man’s going to kill him.

But he can’t let him know that. He can’t let Mickey know that he’s having to consciously compose himself like a blushing middle schooler whose crush just sent them a picture.

He bites his lip and types

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:11 PM):** How bad would it be if I said you were apparently a pussy magnet?

 **Mickey (10:11 PM):** Pretty fuckin bad 🖕

 **Ian (10:12 PM):** Okay, so I won't. But just know that I'm thinking it.

 **Mickey (10:13 PM):** I don't even know why I talk to you

 **Ian (10:14 PM):** Yeah, ya do. 😎

 **Ian (10:14 PM):** No canceling now, Milkovich. I know where you used to live. 

**Mickey (10:14 PM):** Posting that picture was the worst thing I’ve ever done

 **Ian (10:15 PM):** Nope. 😏

 **Ian (10:15 PM):** In fact, I think you should post this one on Instagram so that I can like it.

 **Mickey (10:15 PM):** And you and my sister can have a full fuckin conversation in the replies

 **Ian (10:16 PM):** I knew you’d hate that. 😎

 **Ian (10:16 PM):** But no. I have her number, so we can just text about you, instead.

 **Mickey (10:16 PM):** Like fuck you will

 **Ian (10:17 PM):** Think you can stop me?

 **Mickey (10:17 PM):** Fuck off 🖕

 **Mickey (10:17 PM):** What would you even talk about

 **Ian (10:18 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (10:18 PM):** Wouldn’t you like to know.

 **Mickey (10:18 PM):** You’re such a girl

 **Ian (10:19 PM):** Definitely not.

 **Mickey (10:19 PM):** You ain’t gonna be friends with my sister, Gallagher

 **Ian (10:19 PM):** You ain’t gonna tell me what to do, Milkovich. 🚬😎

\------------------------

Wow. Okay.

Crush isn’t going away anytime soon. Good to know, universe.

Good to fucking know.

Ian Gallagher takes a drag off his cigarette and blows out a long stream of smoke into the air. He thinks about smoking, and he thinks about Mickey, and he thinks about the dirty teenaged boy in the Kash and Grab, shoving a blue Gatorade down the pocket of his cargo pants.

He thinks about his smirk when he got caught by Kash, and he thinks about how he’d just shrugged and walked out with the drink like he didn’t give a fuck.

And maybe, just maybe, Ian thinks about how he might’ve thought he was a little cool back then when he was a dumb fifteen-year-old. 

If he’d known Mickey Milkovich was gay, Ian thinks he might’ve fallen for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 3  
> -Gonna need to employ that suspension of disbelief that Ian didn’t check out the accounts Mickey was following. I know I would’ve done it if I were him, but we’re going to pretend it didn’t occur to Ian to do so, or else he did it but just quickly scrolled and didn’t see anything of interest.
> 
> -I’m so happy Ian’s seen his face now. Wow. I’d forgotten how long it was before he actually saw it.
> 
> -In this version of Ian's history, he and Mandy weren't best friends. They were casual friends who probably studied together on occasion, were nice to each other at school, and have a history that involves Mandy trying to hook up with Ian. No pretend dating, etc. 
> 
> -It seems like a ton of time has passed, but it all checks out. I haven’t actually skipped over more than like, one week of any of their conversations, so they haven’t been off on their own, being cute and flirty for weeks without me noticing. <33
> 
> -Someone commented on LRPD a while back with what was actually on Colin's knuckles (I think they linked to a tweet from J-Mac). I looked for it so I could make the edit, but I cannot find it anywhere. If you're reading this, I'd love for you to tell me again! 
> 
>   
> Thank you so much for reading! I’m having a blast writing from Ian’s POV. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be, if only because it forces me to think about what Ian’s doing in the pauses between messages, whereas when I was writing from Mickey’s POV, I could just have a vague idea. I’d recommend writing like this for anyone else who tends to write 3rd person limited. It makes you think about every choice you’ve made, and I’ve honestly learned a lot from it.
> 
> You all are amazing, and I don’t deserve you. <333 Thanks for your lovely comments and for being so sweet even when I absolutely suck at replying because I am capital L, Lazy. Please just know that you are appreciated and loved.
> 
> See you next time.
> 
> Gray


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He makes him happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian is falling, falling.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait! I really wanted to have this out earlier in the week so I could keep my “twice a month” promise, but alas, I had the _toughest_ time with the first third of this for some reason.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading!
> 
>  **Warnings for EAY Chapter 4:** brief but graphic depiction of the scene of a car accident with blood, gore, and death (skippable)

The smoking thing’s funny to him.

For the next few days after sending his first, Ian makes a point to always take pictures after lighting up, seeing it both as a _fuck you_ to kestrel and the equivalent of a nudge-nudge to Mickey, a real life person he’s once seen in the flesh--someone so much more than a goddamn client all of a sudden, even though the thought of it makes Ian’s gut clench when he considers how completely and utterly risky it is to think that way.

Ian’s already in over his head--was the moment he follow requested Mickey on Instagram--but when he’s grinning at his own image in his phone’s front camera, thinking about Mickey’s expressive eyebrows wrinkling, thinking about those lips twisting up in a wry smile when he receives another one of Ian’s admittedly stupid pictures, all he can think is

 _Fuck_.

All he can think is _Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich_.

\---

On Sunday, he sends Mickey a picture he’d taken on his way back from lunch with Lip. He’s posing for sure, had maybe taken anywhere from five to ten shots trying to get the perfect angle, but he thinks, as he’s preparing it to send to Mickey that night, that it’s one of his favorite pictures of himself. In it, he’s got his head tilted back, eyes closed, blowing out a stream of smoke that’s a stark white-gray against the backdrop of afternoon blue skies.

It occurs to him as he’s sending it that he desperately wants Mickey to think he’s attractive. Ian doesn’t know what that says about him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** Do you smoke? 🚬

\------------------------

he asks, pushing just that little bit further-- _nudge-nudge, Mickey, we know each other, sort of._

And he’s way too impatient, wiggling his toes beneath the blanket he’s got tossed over his feet, waiting for a reply. 

Ian wishes he could be cool about this shit, but he’s never in his entire life felt this way about a guy he thinks is maybe attainable--is maybe someone he could actually _hang out with_ one day.

He’s thought guys were hot plenty of times, of course, has been at the club and felt sweaty and tingly after making eyes with someone. But never before has he felt like a gigantic twelve-year-old with _butterflies_ over a dude around his age who’s both gay and doesn’t seem repulsed by him.

After sending the smoking picture, Ian’s expecting Mickey to message him a picture of Jovi or a teasing comment.

He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down hard when he sees what he actually sends.

It’s a picture of Mickey sitting on his living room couch in the dim light of what looks like only a side-table lamp. With dark-blown eyes, he’s staring straight into the camera--straight into Ian’s _soul_ , it seems. There’s a cigarette balancing on his bottom lip, tilting downward as if opening his lips even one millimeter more would send it into his lap, and his right eyebrow’s a stupidly cute, quirking wave, like he’s trying to look tough.

Angry kitten. Ian scrunches up his nose, his breath coming out in quick, excited puffs.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** Well don't you look cool as fuck. 😎

\------------------------

He thinks Mickey might be the death of him.

He thinks this every time Mickey sends another picture of himself.

He imagines he must look like a little girl texting with her crush when he receives each of the four pictures Mickey sends him over the next couple weeks.

They’re all dimly lit and frustrating, Mickey’s eye color--blue, he’d said--completely indeterminable in the low lighting, his hair a uniform shade of black with no light to reveal its natural undertones, his skin shadowed and his badass expression firmly in place.

Dimly lit, frustrating, and cute as hell. Ian saves them to his phone like a total creep and prays no one ever goes through his camera roll.

\---  
\---

He considers pushing a little bit one night.

Mickey’s sent him a picture of himself drinking from a can of beer, his middle finger raised near his cheek, obscuring most of his face but failing entirely to hide the uptilt of his mouth just at the corner--this hint of a smile around the lip of his beer that makes Ian’s stomach feel like a whirlpool.

 _Hi._ 😍 he types, slow as molasses, heart jackhammering in his chest.

Ian’s thumb hovers over the send button, and he’s a breath away from tapping it when Mickey sends along another message.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:07 PM):** Haven’t flipped you off in a while

 **Ian (8:07 PM):** Thanks for that. 😑

 **Ian (8:07 PM):** Just when I thought we were finally friends…

\------------------------

Ian’s expecting a smart comeback that’ll make him laugh, but what he gets is infinitely better. Mickey sends another picture, this time with the can down, his arm outstretched in front of him and hand tilted to the side as he flips off the camera.

Shit.

Trying to hold back his grin, Ian quickly snaps a photo of himself with his middle finger raised and sends it along. 

And that starts it.

For the next several minutes, Ian and Mickey send a series of increasingly ridiculous middle-finger pictures to each other. 

The longer it goes on, the redder Ian’s face gets, the hotter his skin feels, and the more that bubble of happiness in his chest grows, grows, until it’s pushing against his ribcage, threatening to burst forth.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:19 PM)** Okay, motherfucker! 😡

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** What, can’t take it Gallagher??

\------------------------

Ian props his phone up on a stack of books on his coffee table and, after putting the camera on a ten-second timer, holds out both hands, middle fingers pointing inward. He can’t help but grin in a way that pulls at his cheeks and makes him feel like a kid again.

He outright _chuckles_ as he sends the picture--this maddening one, giddy as hell, gaze wandering over the image of his own face on his phone screen and examining his red cheeks and happy-bright eyes.

But then Mickey doesn’t reply for a long enough period of time that Ian allows his breathing to slow and his bottom lip to creep into his mouth, held down by nervously biting teeth.

God, he looks like a lunatic in the picture, like a kid who's been tickled. Ian scrolls back through their pictures and watches his cheeks get pinker and pinker with each one.

His heart gives a kick when Mickey finally replies.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:24 PM):** What you so happy for

\------------------------

The response causes Ian’s thumbs to stroke tenderly at the edges of his phone screen and his teeth to release his lip.

He blows out a breath. Tries to play it cool.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** Just having fun, Mick. 😎

 **Mickey (8:26 PM):** Mick

 **Ian (8:26 PM):** Yep.

 **Mickey (8:26 PM):** Who says you can call me that

 **Ian (8:27 PM):** I say. 

**Mickey (8:27 PM):** You do huh

 **Ian (8:27 PM):** Yeah. I do.

 **Mickey (8:28 PM):** 👊 

**Ian (8:28 PM):** 😂

\------------------------

 _You’re cute_ is what Ian wants to type, his thumbs itching to tap out that series of letters, maybe followed up by a heart-eyes emoji.

Play it cool. Play it cool.

He’s always been fucking bad at that.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** Gonna fuck me up?

 **Mickey (8:29 PM):** Maybe

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** Wow. 

**Ian (8:30 PM):** Thought I was your friend.

 **Mickey (8:30 PM):** Why would you think that

 **Ian (8:30 PM):** You’re MY friend. 😢

 **Mickey (8:31 PM):** Don’t start that annoyin shit

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** Feel free to say goodbye. 😗🎶 

**Mickey (8:31 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕

 **Ian (8:32 PM):** All bark, no bite. Just as I thought.

 **Mickey (8:32 PM):** Whatever bitch

 **Ian (8:32 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (8:33 PM):** What

 **Ian (8:33 PM):** You called me bitch.

 **Mickey (8:34 PM):** ??

 **Mickey (8:34 PM):** So

 **Ian (8:34 PM):** It’s a suspiciously friend-like thing to do.

 **Mickey (8:35 PM):** You got a fucked up sense of friendship

 **Ian (8:35 PM):** So what if I do, bitch?

 **Mickey (8:36 PM):** Dumbass

 **Ian (8:36 PM):** You’re being SO suspiciously friend-like tonight.

 **Mickey (8:36 PM):** Fuck off, I’m gonna go

 **Ian (8:36 PM):** Sure, friend.

 **Mickey (8:37 PM):** I take it that every time I insult you you’re gonna be an annoying motherfucker

 **Ian (8:37 PM):** Motherfucker. 🤩

 **Mickey (8:37 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (8:37 PM):** A middle finger just for me?

 **Mickey (8:38 PM):** I can’t stand you

 **Ian (8:38 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (8:38 PM):** Bye

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** Have a good night, MICK. 😎

 **Mickey (8:39 PM):** 👊

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** Woooow.

 **Mickey (8:39 PM):** Night

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** 🚬😎 Night, Mickey.

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** Friend.

 **Mickey (8:40 PM):** What’s the most threatening emoji

 **Ian (8:40 PM):** Any threat you send is only going to be taken as a token of friendship, so I say you should give up before you try.

 **Mickey (8:40 PM):** Jesus christ

 **Ian (8:40 PM):** Goodnight. 😉

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** Fuck you 🖕

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** Night

\------------------------

Stomach positively crowded with butterflies, Ian scrolls back through their pictures and messages, lips curling upward in a slow smile. As he thumbs through the middle finger photos, he watches Mickey’s face go from his badass pose to a tight, held-back smile to a full-on grin with teeth only partially concealed by his U-UP hand. 

He’s cute as fuck, and he has no idea. Ian zooms in and with his index finger, taps gently at that tiny bit of teeth he can see.

 _Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich_.

Yeah. Okay.

\---  
\---

The thing about Mickey, Ian’s quickly coming to realize, is that in the span of just a few months, he’s been able to take Ian’s dull, lifeless existence and turn even his worst moments into something he can handle.

His fuck-ups, his fears, his moments of doubt and loneliness and a tendency toward self-criticism that’s firmly rooted in insecurities--they all just seem smoothed over at the edges, softened like a photo run through a filter. Shitty things are still shitty, but the effects are diminished when Ian can play-argue with Mickey for an hour, his mood instantly elevating from that tenuous, friendly connection to another person.

Maybe shit isn’t so awful when you have a friend.

\---  
\---

He works the night shift sometimes--mostly when a coworker needs to switch or he wants to pick up more hours. He doesn’t prefer it, but he likes helping out when he can, though Mindy always gives him a look whenever she’s putting together the weekly schedule and sees Ian’s request to switch or do overtime. Yeah, consistent hours, consistent sleep, consistent stress-levels are good for managing his bipolar. Fine. But the occasional few night shifts and the temporarily fucked-up sleep patterns haven’t messed with him yet.

It’s nearing eleven on Saturday night, and he’s at work, goofing around with Jake, who’s showing Ian and Ellie the Instagram posts of his cheater ex-boyfriend, whom he’d discovered getting dicked down by his _friend from the gym_ in a beater car in the Jewel-Osco parking lot.

“You gotta stop this shit, man,” Ian says, waving in the general direction of Jake’s phone. “I know it sucks, but Kyle’s an asshole. You’re just makin’ yourself depressed.”

Jake blows out a breath and leans backward in the break room recliner. “I knoooow. But he had _the best ass_.”

Ellie sits down on the arm of the recliner and wraps her arm around Jake’s neck. “You need to go out and get laid, babe. Find someone better and forget about Kyle.”

“It was so soft and squishy, like the fuckin’ Pillsbury Doughboy or--”

Ian cuts him off with a loud snort. “Get it together, Jake. This is embarrassing.”

“It was all bouncy and jiggly like Jell-O, and he made these sounds like those chicks in bad straight porn. You’d think it’d be a turn-off, but it was really fuckin’ hot, and--”

Ian has to kind of tune him out after a while, eyes falling on Ellie, who’s biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

“Do you have plans for next weekend, Jake?” she asks, voice dripping with forced affection like she’s attempting to gently talk down an unruly child she really wants to throttle. She cuts her eyes to Ian, who pulls out his phone.

Jake crumples with a sudden memory. “Next Saturday’s my fuckin’ _birthday_! Kyle and I were supposed to do this whole spa thing, and--”

“Hmm,” Ellie cuts in, running a hand over Jake’s head. “Perfect timing. Me and Ian are gettin’ you laid.”

Ian snickers conspiratorially and pulls up his calendar app. “Cockpit? Flash Bang? Bottom Feeders?”

Jake looks miserable for a moment, like the bitchy bottom he’d been fucking for all of a month has positively ruined his life. But then, true to his nature, his expression suddenly turns thoughtful. “Which one has the drag queens?”

They settle on Flash Bang for the following Saturday. Ian inputs a reminder into his phone to get Jake a birthday gift, then swipes over to kestrel to block off that night for Platinum Package appointments.

And he’s just about to lock his phone and put it back in the pocket of his pants when it vibrates with an alert that makes his heart stop.

_kestrel: MICKEY has upgraded to the Gold Package_

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

It wouldn’t normally be a big deal--his clients upgrade all the time--but this is _Mickey_. Gold Package means phone numbers. Gold Package means phone calls and FaceTime.

Gold is the most prevalent package-level among Ian’s clients, as it’s the home of phone sex and the ever-popular half-hour cam shows featuring his dick. He’s used to the Gold Package. It’s not at all unusual for his new clients to sign up for it first thing, even.

But the fact that Mickey’s signed up for it without so much as a heads up, a _Maybe I’ll upgrade, bitch_ 🖕 blows Ian’s mind a little, like Mickey’s just asked him on a fucking date or something.

It probably doesn’t _mean anything_ , and Ian’s likely reading way too much into it, as usual. But why would Mickey upgrade to the Gold Package if he didn’t want...more, somehow?

Ian bites his lip and tries to control his breathing, knowing he probably looks like he’s about to stroke out. 

“You okay?” Ellie asks, sliding off the arm of the recliner and coming over to peer down at his phone screen. Ian immediately closes out of the app and locks his phone.

She shoves at him, grinning. “What was _that_?”

“Nothing.”

“The dick got ya again?” Jake asks, pushing himself upright and stretching. “Must be nice.”

Ellie’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Is it the booooy? Jake, Ian’s got a secret bae.”

“Shut up,” Ian grumbles, shoving his phone in his pocket. “It ain’t a fuckin’ dick or a guy attached to it.” His face is hot under the eyes, and he knows he’s starting to blush.

“Are you ever gonna tell me his name?”

“He doesn’t have a name ‘cause he doesn’t exist.”

“Don’t be shy about gettin’ it in, Ian,” Jake says, standing from the recliner and coming over to wrap his arm around his shoulder. “Wish I could. He got a good ass?”

Ian shoves him off and is in the process of lifting both middle fingers when a call comes in, their pagers beeping out the EMS alert tone in unison.

“Saved by the bell, babe,” Ellie giggles, kicking Ian gently in the shin with her pink Adidas sneaker and taking off toward the ambulance bay.

\---

If Ian had known what was waiting for them on the call, he would’ve stayed in the break room, eating snack machine Fritos and telling Jake and Ellie every minute detail of his relationship with Mickey. He would’ve done it in a heartbeat.

Because what was waiting for them on the call was just about the worst thing he’d ever seen.

A fifteen-seat passenger van had collided with a school bus on its way back from an out-of-state field trip, and the scene of the accident had looked like something out of a disaster movie.

Ian returns back to the station hours later with blood on the long sleeves of his uniform top and the knees of his pants. His eyes burn with panicky tears held in with desperation as he furiously worked to stabilize children who were screaming in pain and fear.

The van was nothing more than an accordion in the aftermath, the front seat passenger, having been thrown through the windshield, a sickeningly-posed pile of bloody limbs on the pavement beside the school bus, and the driver requiring three paramedics on him at once in an attempt to keep him from bleeding out.

Ian and a few fellow EMTs had focused primarily on the kids on the bus, assessing their broken bones and concussed heads from being slung into the bus aisle and violently against the seat backs with the force of the crash.

A little girl in one of the seats near the front had been hurled ten feet and slammed into the dashboard, her face misshapen, puffy, and bleeding profusely, eyes swelling closed due to what looked like several broken facial bones. She’d reminded Ian of an older version of Franny, her thin little kid hair in a tiny bun and her pink unicorn shirt stained dark with blood.

Ian had spoken to her calmly as he ran his hands over her small, fragile body, assessing her injuries, examining for possible problems in the cervical spine, and then, with the assistance of Ellie, carefully loading her onto a stretcher. Her injuries seemed to be centralized to her face, jaw, and ribs, and Ian had wanted to cry as he listened to the hitch in her breath at the pain and the rough, sluggish way in which she tried to scream for her mother. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he’d repeated to her over and over again, trying to keep calm, trying to keep _her_ calm, as his heart violently pounded away in his chest.

All in all, they’d lost three people--the van driver and a couple passengers--had transported fifteen to the hospital, and had assessed a grand total of forty-seven.

He changes his clothes back at the station, standing in the locker room in his boxers and white tank top, examining the dried blood on the bottoms of his shoes and thinking about the inelegance of death, its sounds and its smells. 

The woman he’d seen--the pile of limbs--was gone on impact. Her blonde hair had been a matted, bloody mess tucked against her chest. There were teeth scattered on the ground around her from where her mouth had hit the pavement.

He’d only seen her uncovered by a white sheet for twenty seconds--just a passing, squinty-eyed look as he’d jogged toward the school bus to get to the injured kids--but he can’t get the image out of his mind. 

His stomach hurts from it--this gnawing ache like he hasn’t eaten all day--and once he’s washed up and changed, he takes some chewable Pepto Bismol and drops down in the break room recliner, taking slow breaths through pursed lips.

“That was rough, huh?” one of the paramedics on shift, Peter, asks him from over by the snack machine. “Was it your first time seeing a bloodbath?”

The phrasing doesn’t sit right with Ian, but it _had_ been a bloodbath. When they’d left the scene for the final time, the road was being hosed down by men in hazmat suits.

“Sorta,” he murmurs, running his hand back and forth across his lips.

\---  
\---

Ian takes the hottest shower of his life when he gets home at a little after seven on Sunday morning. After pulling on a pair of burgundy boxers, he swallows down his meds with a cup of water at the sink and then collapses in bed, body sore, brain exhausted.

He sleeps until just past three and then lies wrapped up in his comforter for another half hour, mind replaying the previous night like a bad horror film stuck on continuous loop.

All he sees is the woman on the road--her body a literal heap of just… _parts_ , blood pooled out on the ground around her and turning the already night-dark pavement black. 

He’s seen worse. He’s seen _objectively_ worse. He’s seen guts and brains and so much worse than a bloody, broken body.

But the woman on the road was different. The woman on the road had looked like his mom.

He knows now, as he pulls his comforter more tightly around him, that she reminded him of Monica on the kitchen floor after she’d slit her wrists one Thanksgiving. Her body had been slumped unnaturally against the bottom of the counter, blood pouring out of her arms and pooling in that same, dark, red-black way.

Monica hadn’t died then, so Ian doesn’t know why it still turns his stomach so much to think about it. It was just blood, and it was just a woman he thought he hardly knew then, who’d had him and his siblings and then fucked off, only to return once in a blue moon to stir shit up and flip their lives upside down.

He twists in bed, scrubs his hands over his face, and thinks about how he didn’t know then that he was just like her. He didn’t know that her fucked up brain, all the imbalanced chemicals, all the shifting moods, the bursts of wild, frenzied energy that would collapse into the deepest despair--all that shit was cooking inside his own head, readying itself to make an appearance a year and a half later. He didn’t know it then. Didn’t know that he’d one day stand on a bridge contemplating just… _stopping_. Contemplating what, at sixteen, he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to do as he’d stared down at his mom’s attempt to put a period at the end of her life.

 _Fuck_. He’s spiraling. He doesn’t want to spiral. He doesn’t want to think about Monica, and he doesn’t want to think about the woman on the road, and he doesn’t want to think about the fact that he’s still in bed, burritoed in his comforter, feeling like he could close his eyes and sleep for another eight hours. He doesn’t _want this shit_.

Groaning, he climbs out of bed and goes to the bathroom, pissing and washing his face and running a toothbrush over his furry-feeling teeth. He stares at himself in the mirror and blows out a breath.

\---

Kicking his ass into gear, trying to throw himself out of his funk, he puts on the Have a Great Day! Spotify playlist and makes a grilled cheese sandwich. Then, still dressed only in boxers, he wraps himself up in the oatmeal blanket he has tossed over the back of his couch and forces himself to eat while watching the first episode of _BoJack Horseman_ on Netflix.

It’s moments like this in which he gets a little wistful. 

He feels stupid for thinking it--feels weak, maybe, in a way that he thinks will forever and ever keep him from sharing these thoughts with others. 

It’s moments like this in which he wants somebody to lean against on the couch. Wants somebody to tell about the fucked up shit going on in his head. Wants somebody to run their thumb along his jaw and kiss his cheek and tell him he’s okay. He’s fine. Everything’s cool.

Ian puts his empty plate on the coffee table and picks up his phone.

He bites his lip and swipes open kestrel, taking a few minutes to read through the conversation he and Mickey’d had the day before.

Mickey had sent him a picture of Jovi asleep on his back, arms stretched upward and belly on full display.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:22 PM):** 😍

 **Mickey (5:22 PM):** Yeah you think so now, but if you touched him he’d attack like a fuckin wolverine

 **Ian (5:22 PM):** Pretty sure he’d love me.

 **Ian (5:23 PM):** Also, that simile makes him sound much more vicious than I suspect he is. Look at his face! Fucking angel.

 **Ian (5:23 PM):** And this is coming from someone who doesn’t usually like cats.

 **Mickey (5:24 PM):** Nah he’d fuck you up

 **Ian (5:24 PM):** Oh yeah?

 **Ian (5:24 PM):** You gonna get him some tiny little knuckle tats like his dad?

 **Mickey (5:25 PM):** Maybe

 **Ian (5:25 PM):** That’s cute.

 **Mickey (5:26 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (5:26 PM):** 😎

\------------------------

Pressing his lips into a straight line, Ian scrolls back through his notifications and checks the time that Mickey upgraded. 10:47 PM.

 _What changed?_ he wonders, swiping back to their chat thread. What happened between 5:26 and 10:47 that made Mickey want to take their professional relationship to the next level, so to speak?

Was it because Ian said the matching knuckle tattoos thing was cute, implying _Mickey_ ’s also cute?

Ian blows out a breath and taps into the chat box.

It’s not like he can _ask_ him because that would be weird as shit. Mickey’s a _client_ , after all, and Ian’s job is to follow his lead, not question why he decided he was willing to fork over $65.99 a week for him.

 _Shit_.

Play it cool. Play it cool.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:35 PM):** Hey. Sorry. Don't leave me a bad review.

 **Ian (4:35 PM):** I saw you upgraded yesterday, and I was supposed to get this shit to you within 12 hours, but I had a really fucking bad night.

 **Mickey (4:36 PM):** It's cool. You alright?

\------------------------

Ian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and considers telling Mickey about the call. Would that be a weird thing to do?

 _Not really_ , he types, shifting around onto his back. He taps his fingers against the sides of his phone as he considers how to explain it--how to put into words the feeling in his belly and in his head. 

But he’s not even sure he understands it enough to articulate. 

And fuck, Mickey doesn’t even know that he’s an EMT. He can’t just dump this shit on him all at once.

Inhaling sharply, Ian erases what he’s written and instead types

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:37 PM):** Yeah. I'm good. Sorry. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime?

 **Ian (4:37 PM):** Anyway, let me tell you about the Gold Package. Thanks for upgrading, by the way!

\------------------------

All business, goddammit, Ian swipes over to his message bank and copies the Gold Package description to send along to Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:38 PM):** At this level, we can either stick to the app or take things off-app, which some clients prefer in order to get a more private, authentic experience. If we go off-app, I'll give you a number, and if you're comfortable with it, we can just text, call, and FaceTime through our iPhones. If you're not comfortable with that, you'll see that you're now able to call and send video chat requests through the kestrel client.

 **Ian (4:38 PM):** Let me know what you prefer!

\------------------------

 _We can just text, call, and FaceTime_. 

Just.

Ian feels like his heart’s going to burst out of his chest cavity at that thought of FaceTiming with Mickey. Are he and Mickey going to have _FaceTime sex_ one day?

Play it cool. Play it fucking cool, Gallagher.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (4:41 PM):** Got it, C-3PO

 **Mickey (4:41 PM):** Phone number. I hate opening up this fuckin app all the time.

\------------------------

He’s going to get Mickey’s phone number.

Ian runs a hand over his face.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:42 PM):** You don't let anybody off easy, do you? Am I gonna have to go through all my pre-written messages and personalize them for you?

 **Ian (4:42 PM):** Don't answer that because I have one more for you:

 **Ian (4:43 PM):** Great! My number is 312-555-0116. Please add it to your address book, and we can pick up our conversation from there! Let me know if you have any questions.

 **Ian (4:43 PM):** Motherfucker. 🖕

\------------------------

He squeezes his eyes shut and considers the reality of his current situation.

Mickey’s going to text him. They get to _text_.

It means Ian’s going to have to carry around his work phone now--the iPhone in the black and teal kestrel case he leaves on the charger until 7 PM--but whatever. That’s fine.

He stands from the couch and moves to the kitchen, where he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and takes his work phone from his little makeshift charging station on the counter.

Ian usually leaves it turned off all day, as he doesn’t want to bother with watching it light up--even in its silenced state--as his clients try to call or text him outside his work hours. He holds down the side button and heads back to the couch to lounge as the phone powers on.

Mickey’s message comes in a few minutes later, and Ian can’t stop himself from grinning when he sees the last four digits of his phone number: 7189.

Apparently referencing Ian’s _Motherfucker. 🖕_ from before, Mickey texts

\------------------------

 **Mickey (4:51 PM):** You talk to all your clients that way?

 **Ian (4:51 PM):** Not unless they ask nicely.

\------------------------

Snickering, Ian taps _info_ at the top of the thread and adds Mickey’s number to the phone’s contacts. He glances at the empty circle where a picture would normally go and bites his lip.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:53 PM):** So let's christen iMessage with a good old fashioned photo exchange.

\------------------------

He scrambles for a minute, considering taking a brand new picture, but ultimately decides to airdrop to his kestrel phone the one he’d taken prior to work the previous day, as he may or may not have taken it with Mickey in mind.

Once received, he saves it to his camera roll and sends it to Mickey.

He’s got on his work uniform and jacket, and he’d taken advantage of the golden hour sun to take a portrait-mode selfie at his bedroom window.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:57 PM):** Your turn.

\------------------------

Ian really hopes Mickey interprets this photo exchange as Ian-pic-for-Mickey-pic. He loves receiving pictures of Jovi, but he’d love even more a picture of his owner.

He sucks in a quick breath when the picture comes in. 

Absolute best of both worlds.

It’s a picture of Mickey holding his blurred, wiggly cat against his chest, and despite the fact that it’s--once again--a dimly lit photo that reveals absolutely zero color detail, Ian thinks he might just lose his mind over it.

Because the thing is, Mickey looks _hot_.

 _Fuck_ , he’s hot.

He’s wearing a crew-neck shirt that’s _maybe_ green, and there’s a hole at the neck seam, and he’s got a shadow of stubble over his jaw and his lips are slightly parted like he was about to say something to the cat as he took the photo.

Mickey looks like he’s been lounging around his home all day, being sleepy and relaxed, and Ian thinks he’s just about the best looking thing he’s seen in a while.

He takes a huge gulp of water and then opens up the emoji keyboard.

He’d sent the fucking heart-eyes the day before, and Mickey’d been cool with it. Sure, it was in response to a picture of _only_ the cat, but Ian feels like pressing his luck.

He feels like a lot of things.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:02 PM):** 😍

 **Ian (5:03 PM):** “A Man and His Cat”

 **Ian (5:03 PM):** I like your stubble, by the way.

\------------------------

Ian squeezes his eyes shut, cringing. 

Too much?

He tilts sideways into a lying position and twists onto his back.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (5:04 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (5:05 PM):** That was actually very genuine. It looks good on you.

 **Mickey (5:05 PM):** Yeah yeah

 **Mickey (5:06 PM):** Itchy as fuck

 **Ian (5:06 PM):** Take the compliment, bitch. 😎

 **Mickey (5:07 PM):** Compliment taken. 🖕

\------------------------

Shit.

 _Shit_.

Ian lets out some semblance of a breathy laugh and crosses his ankles.

That goddamn middle finger. Why does it make his heart pound?

There’s a lull in the conversation then, and Ian spends the time posting that pre-work photo on Instagram, a flood of warmth starting in his belly and little happy-tingles beginning to work their way up his spine. 

It’s like, when he talks to Mickey, his shit takes a backseat. It’s still _there_. When Ian thinks about the woman on the road, when he thinks about Monica, he gets the kick to the heart, the twist in his gut. But he also gets to think about Mickey, and how Mickey’s just sent him a picture of himself, and how he upgraded to the Gold Package and wanted Ian to text him using his phone number, and all of that just makes him feel like there’s something better out there for him. There’s something more than all the fucked up shit that goes on upstairs. There’s laughter and stubbly jawlines and middle finger emojis. There’s another human being out there outside his immediate family who likes talking to him, apparently. Who’s willing to pay $65.99 a week to play-argue with him and maintain an ongoing chat thread in which Ian is purposely annoying as fuck and Mickey pretends he can’t stand him.

There’s another human being out there who likes his Instagram photo less than a minute after he’s posted it, causing Ian to duck his head and grin like a dorky fucking middle schooler.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:15 PM):** Thanks for the like.

\------------------------

Why does this shit make Ian so _irrationally happy_? He feels like he’s just taken a snort off a goddamn whippet.

Smiling like a _fool_ , he slides a hand under the hem of his shirt and scratches at his belly, thinking. Wondering.

Should he push?

He likes to push. He likes to push, and he doesn’t like playing shit cool.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:16 PM):** Also, can I say something?

 **Mickey (5:16 PM):** What

 **Ian (5:17 PM):** You accidentally liking that picture on my insta last month is actually the funniest fucking thing.

 **Mickey (5:18 PM):** Fuck you

 **Ian (5:18 PM):** Like, it's such a classically awkward situation. I bet you were panicking. I would've been.

 **Mickey (5:19 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian wants to _see his face_. Has he gone red? Is he smiling?

Is the angry kitten look firmly in place?

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:21 PM):** But I want you to know that it's totally fine. I'm toootally cool with you insta-stalking me.

 **Mickey (5:22 PM):** Bitch I'm leaving.

 **Ian (5:22 PM):** 😂😂

 **Ian (5:25 PM):** Don't go.

\------------------------

Every time Mickey calls him _bitch_ , Ian’s feels a rush.

He taps his index fingers anxiously against the sides of the phone and grins wider and wider the longer it takes Mickey to reply. Little shit.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:27 PM):** Don't go. 😂

 **Ian (5:29 PM):** You dick! 😂 😂

 **Ian (5:33 PM):** Did you actually leave?

 **Ian (5:35 PM):** Yo!

\------------------------

It occurs to Ian that he could technically call Mickey if he wanted to. That would absolutely be peak annoying, and the thought of it is tempting, but at the same time, Ian’s pretty sure that’d be a shitty thing to do.

He sobers for a moment, pursing his lips. Mickey’s also a fucking _client_ , and clients alone are supposed to dictate stuff like that.

Chill out, Gallagher. 

Ian scratches at his chin.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (5:39 PM):** That's what you get. 🖕

 **Ian (5:39 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (5:39 PM):** You do know that now that I have your number, I can just blow up your phone with texts anytime I want.

 **Mickey (5:40 PM):** Kestrel ain’t got rules and shit? Thou shalt not be an annoying motherfucker

 **Ian (5:40 PM):** Sure, but the #1 rule of kestrel is to appeal to your client. 

**Mickey (5:40 PM):** The fuck

 **Ian (5:41 PM):** The way I see it, I’ve been annoying you for like 3 months, and not only have you NOT cancelled, but you literally just upgraded. 

**Ian (5:41 PM):** Conclusion: I’m doing a good ass job.

 **Mickey (5:41 PM):** Of bein annoying, yeah

 **Mickey (5:42 PM):** Fuckhead

 **Ian (5:42 PM):** Wow, Mickey. Wow.

 **Ian (5:42 PM):** Feel free to cancel. 😜

 **Ian (5:42 PM):** Feel free to stop texting back. 😜

 **Mickey (5:43 PM):** I take back what I said about the sunglasses emoji, this is definitely your worst one

 **Ian (5:43 PM):** 😎

\------------------------  
\---

After their conversation, Ian surprisingly easily manages to scrounge up enough energy to pick up the dirty laundry on his bedroom and bathroom floors and prepare a bag to take to the laundromat the next day.

He then watches more _BoJack_ and drinks a beer until he starts to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. 

Mandy posts on Instagram while he’s deciding whether or not to finish the can. It’s a picture of her holding a cigarette and grinning brightly, like the person taking the photo’s just told her a joke.

She looks beautiful and happy, and Ian likes the picture and replies with a red heart, and she texts him less than a minute later.

\------------------------

 **Mandy (7:09 PM):** i’m convinced you’re fucking my brother, just so you know.

 **Ian (7:10 PM):** We’re friends, Mandy. I promise.

 **Mandy (7:11 PM):** okaaaaay, but he’s liking your ig posts. 

**Mandy (7:11 PM):** all of them.

 **Mandy (7:11 PM):** even the ones that only get like 10 likes.

 **Ian (7:12 PM):** Yeah, I dunno. We’re just friends, though, so don’t get any ideas. 😂

 **Mandy (7:12 PM):** whatever. seems sus tho. 💛

 **Ian (7:13 PM):** If we were together, why would we hide it?

 **Mandy (7:13 PM):** why would my brother do anything?

 **Ian (7:13 PM):** 🤔

 **Mandy (7:14 PM):** it doesn’t matter either way.

 **Mandy (7:14 PM):** but if you are together, i would be happy.

 **Mandy (7:14 PM):** and i can see mick really liking you. 👀

 **Mandy (7:14 PM):** so feel free to tell me.

 **Mandy (7:14 PM):** if you’re together.

 **Ian (7:15 PM):** Noted. ❤️️ We’re really not together, though, so sorry to disappoint?

 **Mandy (7:15 PM):** men disappoint me every day so i’m used to it. ✌

\------------------------

Mandy’s a little much like she’s always been. It was the thing he most liked about her when he was fifteen and the two of them were playfully arguing over an answer on a homework assignment.

It does make him think, though.

Is it _possible_ he and Mickey could like, get together at some point? Eventually?

Could Mickey one day be his fuckin’ boyfriend?

What a messed up family they’d make--the Gallaghers and the Milkoviches. 

_Fuck_ , he’s stupid for even thinking about this. Mickey’s paying him money. 

This isn’t a romance novel. Life sucks and shit happens.

He heads into the bedroom, opens the window, and smokes two cigarettes in a row while looking out into the Chicago night.

He sees the cityscape in the distance, and he hears the rush of the L and smells the garlicky scent wafting from the Italian place down the block, and he thinks about Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich and how, in spite of their unconventional relationship and the fact that Ian’s basically his glorified rentboy, he makes Ian really fucking happy.

Mickey makes him forget about the suckiness of life and the shit that happens within it.

\---

Ian texts Mickey a picture of his Frosted Flakes dinner just before ten. He doesn’t necessarily intend for it to go anywhere, and he mostly does it just because he knows it’ll make Mickey rant a little in a way Ian thinks he probably secretly likes.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:50 PM):** Brinner.

\------------------------

But immediately after it’s sent, he thinks about Mandy’s text, and he wonders about Mickey maybe liking him one day--even if it’s just a little, and even if it’s in an alternate reality in which being a bipolar hooker’s an attractive quality in a potential boyfriend.

He bites his lip, and he wants to _push_.

He wants to see if just _maybe_ there’s...something. Even if it’s not there yet. Maybe there’s a thread of potential.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:52 PM):** Order a fuckin pizza. That's just sad, man.

 **Ian (9:52 PM):** Sad and delicious.

 **Ian (9:52 PM):** What's your favorite cereal?

 **Mickey (9:53 PM):** What kinda dumb fuckin question is that

 **Ian (9:53 PM):** Answer it, bitch.

 **Mickey (9:54 PM):** I dunno, like Reese's Puffs??

 **Ian (9:54 PM):** Good answer. 👍

\------------------------

Ian’s stomach hurts with nerves.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:55 PM):** You weird motherfucker

 **Ian (9:55 PM):** And to reward you...

 **Ian (9:55 PM):** I'm accepting picture requests for the next five minutes. Get to thinking.

 **Mickey (9:56 PM):** What

\------------------------

Ian’s breath comes in starts and stops as he types.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:56 PM):** Tell me what you wanna see, and I'll make it happen.

 **Ian (9:56 PM):** Within reason.

\------------------------

He’s well aware of the fact that he’s potentially on thin ice, here.

Mickey has, in no uncertain terms, told him he didn’t want to do sex stuff, and this wouldn’t _have to be_. It’s not what he’s suggesting. It’s just… What if it ended up that way?

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:57 PM):** Doesn't have to be a sex thing. Just play along!

 **Mickey (9:58 PM):** So you're like eating cereal right now and you want me to request something I wanna see in a picture

 **Ian (9:58 PM):** You are literally 0% fun. But yes.

 **Mickey (9:59 PM):** Like what

\------------------------

Dork. Ian takes a nervous bite of his Frosted Flakes, smiling around his spoon.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:00 PM):** Mickey.

\------------------------

It takes a while for Mickey to respond, but the fact that he doesn’t immediately reply with a row of middle finger emojis causes Ian to chalk it up as a win.

And fuck, when the response does come in, Ian can’t help but burst into a bought of breathy laughter.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:04 PM):** Ok fine. Whatever.

 **Mickey (10:05 PM):** Eating your fuckin corn flakes in your underwear

 **Ian (10:06 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (10:06 PM):** Give me a sec.

 **Ian (10:07 PM):** And they're Frosted Flakes. 🖕

\------------------------

Still snickering, Ian stands from where he’s seated at the kitchen table and grabs up his bowl of cereal.

He’s still in his burgundy boxers, having never gotten around to putting on clothes, and he spends the next several minutes taking no less than fifteen pictures of himself posing in various ways with his Frosted Flakes.

When he’s done, he bites back a grin as he thumbs through them, deleting the worst of the bunch and adding filters to the best three.

And with a low, idle whistle, Ian sends them to Mickey along with 

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:16 PM):** Okay, okay. So, lucky for me, I was kinda already in my underwear.

 **Ian (10:17 PM):** I wasn't EXACTLY sure what you were looking for, so I took three.

\------------------------

He’d chosen the one of him in front of the fridge, taking a messy, milk-dripping bite; the one where, funnily enough, he was on his way to adjust the angle of the phone and the self-timer got him mid-bend; and finally, the one he was kind of proud of--the one he thought would make Mickey smile: a shot of him sitting up on the counter, spoon in his mouth and middle finger up.

Once the photos say _delivered_ , Ian sits back down at the table and munches at the rest of his cereal while waiting, heart pounding and brain buzzing like his head’s full of bees, watching for the dancing dots to signal that Mickey’s typing.

He waits, and he waits, and after nearly ten full minutes, he pushes away his cereal bowl, gets both thumbs on the keyboard and, feeling panicked, messages him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:26 PM):** Did you get them?

 **Mickey (10:27 PM):** Yeah

\------------------------

Wonderful. Love the enthusiasm.

Ian runs the side of his index finger back and forth against his furrowed brow.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:27 PM):** You like?

\------------------------

The fact that it takes Mickey two minutes to respond to that simple question nearly gives Ian a coronary.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:29 PM):** Weird as far as photo shoots go

 **Mickey (10:29 PM):** But yeah

\------------------------

Fuck. Okay. Yeah. 

Yeah?

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:30 PM):** Just doing as requested. 😏

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t respond to that at all, even after five minutes. Ian sets down his phone, gets up, and carries his cereal bowl to the sink.

He dumps the leftover milk down the drain, taps on the water with his wrist, and begins to rinse the bowl while he thinks about Mickey.

Something about that last exchange--Mickey’s _But yeah_ , his complete lack of emojis and over-the-top language--felt fucking _shy_.

It felt like the covert little conversations he’d have with Roger, the guy he lost his virginity to at fourteen, this funny little locker-room conversation in which they both were trying to feel each other out, see if the other was really gay and not just pretending for the sake of a cruel joke and set-up to an ass beating.

It felt like the first time Roger touched him, how he’d avoided eye contact as he’d gone in, hand searching out Ian’s body under his sweaty gym shorts.

It felt like nerves, like a sweet, whispered, “Is it okay if we’re a little like… _that_ with each other?”

More than anything, Ian thinks as he turns off the water and sets the bowl in the drying rack, it feels like Mickey might not be completely opposed to movement.

He’d upgraded, and he had to have known damn well what the Gold Package is for. He and Ian’d talked about it often enough that it was impossible to imagine he didn’t.

He’d wanted Ian’s work number so they could text via iMessage.

He could’ve played it off, asking for any number of completely stupid, unsexual things, but he’d asked for Ian to pose for photos in his underwear.

Ian dries off his hands on a paper towel and moves back over to the table, picking up his phone.

And _shit_ , he just likes him so much. He wants to _see him_. 

It’s stupid, and it’s probably wrong for him to feel this way about a client. But it’s fucking _Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich_ whom he likes talking to more than he likes talking to anyone, and all he wants is to hope that Mickey maybe likes him just a little. Ian wants him to want to share things with him, wants them to be able to send each other things sometimes--things that Ian can look at when he’s feeling off, when he’s wanting someone to lean against on the couch.

Holding his breath, Ian types out three little letters.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:41 PM):** Hey.

 **Mickey (10:41 PM):** Hey?

 **Ian (10:42 PM):** You can definitely say no, so please don't feel obligated or whatever.

 **Ian (10:42 PM):** But do you think you could maybe send me something?

\------------------------

His stomach twists with nerves, and he squirms in his seat, foot tapping anxiously against the leg of his chair.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:43 PM):** If you want. Only if you want.

\------------------------

And he wants to die when Mickey doesn’t immediately reply.

He cups his face in his hand and blows out an exasperated breath against his palm.

 _Fuck_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:45 PM):** It's okay if not. Don't worry about it.

\------------------------

he sends hurriedly--abort, abort, _abort_.

But then he feels like he’s been kicked in the chest when Mickey messages him back.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:45 PM):** What would you want

\------------------------

Holy fucking shit.

Ian sets his phone down for a second and presses his hands to either side of his face.

What does he _say_?

He inhales-exhales rapidly through his nose, purses his lips, and, after a taking a moment to think, types

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:46 PM):** Please say no if you're not into it.

 **Ian (10:46 PM):** But I dunno. Something with your shirt off?

\------------------------

He laughs after sending it, dropping his forehead to the tabletop and feeling like he’s been injected with helium. _Jesus Christ_ , what the _hell_ is he doing?

He is the absolute worst escort in the history of the world, and he’ll be fuckin’ lucky if Mickey doesn’t drop his ass and report him to kestrel support.

Ian slowly lifts his head, groaning. He’s at least partially expecting Mickey to either not reply to that or tell him to fuck off.

When he sees what Mickey actually messages him, he wonders if he’d hit his head against the table a little too hard.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:49 PM):** Yeah, ok

 **Ian (10:50 PM):** Really?

 **Mickey (10:50 PM):** 🖕 Yeah yeah, just hold on.

\------------------------

At 10:53, Ian receives his first shirtless picture of Mickey Milkovich.

At 10:53, Ian rolls his lips into his mouth and presses his fist to his lips.

It’s not only his first time seeing Mickey shirtless, but it’s also his first time seeing him under good lighting, his skin bright, his hair showing every fine and wonderful shade of black and dark brown, his eyes blue and beautiful in a way that makes Ian’s heart hurt.

It’s a waist-up mirror photo, and Mickey looks cute as hell even while trying to look tough. His cheeks are flushed, and his stomach looks tight, rib cage lifted like he’s sucking in, and it’s so adorable that Ian wants to throw his phone across the room.

Mickey’s got a little brown freckle or mole on his belly, and something about that sends a flood of heat into Ian’s cheeks, pinkening them just under his eyes.

He enlarges the photo and drags it around, looking at every little detail of his skin, spying the faint, barely-there wisps of chest hair and his cold-peaked pink nipples and the adorable slope of his shoulders.

Truly, it’s everything he could ever want. Mickey’s handsome as hell, and dragging the photo so his enlarged face is in view makes Ian’s stomach flutter so intensely that he presses a hand to it.

He thinks about kissing him, and he thinks about sucking just at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and he thinks about touching their noses together and smiling against his lips. Thinks about calling each other all sorts of names and flipping each other off and dragging each other close.

 _Shit_.

Ian Gallagher is completely fucked.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:57 PM):** I'm just gonna say it. You're in trouble.

 **Ian (10:58 PM):** 'cause there's no way in hell we're not adding those to our repertoire.

 **Mickey (10:58 PM):** Whatever 🖕

 **Ian (10:58 PM):** No, I’m serious. You done goofed by sending that.

 **Mickey (10:59 PM):** Shut the fuck up, cereal boy

 **Ian (10:59 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (10:59 PM):** Mickey, why are you like this? 😂

 **Mickey (11:00 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕

\------------------------

 _Shit_ , Ian’s into him.

\---  
\---

He hadn’t really been serious about the shirtless photos thing, even though he would’ve given a kidney to receive them as often as he receives Jovi pictures.

But fuck, to Ian’s complete and utter surprise, Mickey actually _does_ add them to their repertoire.

He doesn’t send them often, and whenever he does, he acts all, _no, I didn’t actually just send you a shirtless photo--what the fuck are you on about?_ Nevertheless, he successfully causes Ian to about lose his mind with his sneak-attack shirtless pics, sent often in response to Ian’s own shirtless photos and done so casually that Ian knows Mickey’s actively pushing himself to be as nonchalant as possible about something that’s very likely difficult for him.

On Thursday of the following week, Ian’s smoking at his bedroom window when Mickey sends a picture of himself that makes him laugh so hard a woman walking by on the sidewalk below stops and looks up at him.

Mickey’s shirtless and sitting up in bed, back to the headboard, and making the most _offended_ -looking face Ian’s ever seen, his eyes pointed downward at Jovi, who’s cuddled to his chest and shoulder like a baby he’s trying to burp.

Mickey’s stubbly, and his eyes look dark in the weird lighting, and Ian can see a bit of his armpit hair due to the angle of his arm as he holds out his phone to snap the photo.

Ian wants to _die_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:12 PM):** What’s with the face?! 

**Ian (10:12 PM):** As if you didn’t snuggle him to you like that before you took this. 😎

 **Mickey (10:13 PM):** Fuck you 🖕🖕

 **Mickey (10:13 PM):** He’s a clingy bastard

 **Ian (10:14 PM):** Whatever you say. 😏

\------------------------

Smirking, Ian tosses his cigarette butt out the window, climbs off the sill, and pulls his shirt over his head. He heads to the bathroom and, using the mirror, snaps a waist-up photo of himself making an obnoxiously goofy face.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:18 PM):** This is what I think about that.

 **Mickey (10:20 PM):** Nice fleshlight by the sink

\------------------------

Goddammit.

Pulling back up the photo, Ian snorts when he spies the black, flashlight-shaped sex toy with the pink asshole pointing directly toward the mirror.

He’d forgotten to put it away after cleaning it earlier. 

He thinks he might jump out his open window.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:21 PM):** I hate you.

 **Mickey (10:22 PM):** That’s so fuckin funny man

 **Ian (10:22 PM):** Goodnight. 😑

 **Mickey (10:23 PM):** 🔦

\------------------------

He makes him happy.

\---  
\---

Ian has an appointment with Mara on Friday morning.

During the appointment, she looks through his eMoods data, asks how he’s been feeling over the past month, and works with him to come up with a mental health goal for April, which he thinks is a complete waste of time.

When their fifty minutes are almost up and Ian’s getting restless, feet bouncing rhythmically against the hardwood floors, Mara reaches out and taps him on the leg with her notebook.

“Had any changes in your life recently?” she asks, lips curling in a mixture between a smirk and a genuine smile. Ian’s usually proud when he pulls those out of her, as they’re few and far between. Today, though, it feels nosy.

“What do you mean?” he asks, stilling his feet and gripping the arms of the leather chair.

Mara shrugs knowingly and twiddles her pen between two fingers. “For one, you’re the happiest I’ve seen you in a while.”

Ian feels a flush creeping up his neck. He darts his eyes around the room in what he knows as he’s doing it is the most obvious and pathetic of tells.

Noticing how flustered her comment made him, Mara tilts her head and brings her thumb and index finger up to cup her chin. “I’m not going to pry,” she says, voice even. “It’s a good look on you is all. I’m glad to see it.”

Ian shrugs a little and looks down, eyes focusing in on the small dot of reddish bleach discoloration on the thigh of his work pants. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the word lingering there at the end, drawn out like he’s perhaps considering elaborating.

He looks up, and Mara’s just watching him calmly, waiting.

“There’s sort of a guy, I guess,” Ian says, heart thumping hard at the fact that he’s said it out loud. _There’s a guy_.

“A special guy?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I think that’s great. Happy for you.” Mara smiles for real this time, not a single trace of wryness present.

Ian shrugs again, then nods. “He just. I dunno.” His eyes wander to the kitschy painting on the wall behind Mara’s head. “He makes my life feel a little less shitty.”

“Do you think your life’s shitty?”

There she goes, pushing again. Ian shakes his head.

“No. I just get kinda fucked up sometimes and like, stuck in my head and shit. He brings me out.”

“Sounds like a good person to have around.”

Ian’s lips tilt upward into the beginnings of a smile. 

\---

After his therapy session, he heads in to work. It’s a slow day, and he finds himself spending the better part of the morning texting with Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:07 AM):** Tell the fuckin app to stop emailing me stupid shit

 **Ian (10:07 AM):** ?

 **Mickey (10:08 AM):** I keep gettin ads for like other dudes

 **Mickey (10:08 AM):** Pics of them and shit

 **Ian (10:09 AM):** 😲

 **Ian (10:09 AM):** Dirty, stinky rats! Trying to make my best customer cancel on me for someone better?! 😓

 **Mickey (10:10 AM):** Fuck if I’m your best customer

 **Mickey (10:10 AM):** And if I’m gonna cancel on ya it’s because you just said “dirty stinky rats”

 **Ian (10:11 AM):** Glad to hear you aren’t enticed by the other guys’ good looks and charms. ✨

 **Mickey (10:11 AM):** Nah they look like a buncha pussies

 **Mickey (10:11 AM):** Don’t know why the fuck the app thinks I’d be into that

 **Mickey (10:12 AM):** One of the dudes likes yoga

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** Maybe he has a good heart. ✨

 **Mickey (10:12 AM):** Ain’t lookin for a heart

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Hm. 🤔

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Whatcha looking for? 

**Mickey (10:16 AM):** Nothin

 **Ian (10:16 AM):** Hm. 🤔

 **Mickey (10:16 AM):** 🖕

 **Ian (10:17 AM):** Anyway, those other guys suck.

 **Ian (10:17 AM):** I’m the only Perfect Match worth having. 

**Ian (10:17 AM):** Ask anybody. 😉

 **Mickey (10:18 AM):** Yeah yeah fucker

 **Mickey (10:18 AM):** Guess I won’t cancel

 **Mickey (10:18 AM):** Yet

 **Mickey (10:19 AM):** But your days are numbered

 **Ian (10:19 AM):** They are, huh? Whatcha waiting on?

 **Mickey (10:19 AM):** There’s just so much I can take

 **Ian (10:19 AM):** That’s what she said.

 **Ian (10:20 AM):** 😂 😂

 **Mickey (10:20 AM):** 🖕

\------------------------

He’s laughing to himself, leaning back against his locker, when Ellie steps over to him and gives him a hip bump.

“What’s his name?”

Ian rolls his eyes and locks his phone. “Will ya lay off that?”

“Sure.” Ellie smirks and crosses her arms over her chest. “As soon as you tell me about the guy who’s making you go all starry-eyed.”

“It’s really not like that.”

“So there _is_ a guy?”

Ian scoffs and turns around to face his locker, pulling it open and digging around in it absently, hoping Ellie’ll lose interest and walk away.

No such luck. She pokes him in the shoulder. “Come on, Ian. I won’t say anything.”

He blows out an exasperated breath into his locker and spins back around. “His name’s Mickey, we’re literally just texting, end of story.”

Ellie’s face lights up. “Aww. Do you like him?”

“We’re just friends, El. He’s funny. I like talking to him.”

“Where’d you meet?”

“What’s with the third degree?”

“I’m trying to be your friend, dude.” Ellie rolls her eyes and gives Ian a gentle shove. “I’m also trying to find out whether I should attempt to get you and Jake together.”

“Ah, fuck!” Ian groans and wiggles away from Ellie’s clutches. “Not my type.”

“He’s hot?”

“He’s _very_ hot. We’re just not compatible.”

“Are you compatible with Mickey?”

“Leave me alone, Ellie,” Ian grumbles, holding up both middle fingers and taking off toward the break room.

He hears her giggling behind him.

\---  
\------------------------

 **Ellie (8:04 PM):** u should invite mickey out with us tonight :)

\------------------------

Ian’s leaned over his bathroom sink Saturday night, gently gliding some black eyeliner on his lower lashline when she texts him that. He doesn’t go clubbing very often anymore, but when he does, he likes to dress the part, pulling on skinny jeans, a tight black tanktop, and doing his eyes. It reminds him a little too much of his go-go dancer days, but it makes him feel confident and sexy to dress that way.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:05 PM):** Nah. Flash Bang’s not really his scene.

 **Ellie (8:05 PM):** whatever u say!

 **Ellie (8:05 PM):** i still think u should ask, especially if ur into him

 **Ian (8:06 PM):** When did I say I was into him?

 **Ellie (8:06 PM):** ian ur exhausting

\------------------------

Ian snorts, imagining what Mickey would say if he tried to invite him to the club. He can’t even fathom the amount of middle finger emojis he’d get at the suggestion that they meet in person.

Finishing up his eyeliner, Ian checks his reflection in the mirror, takes a couple selfies to maybe send to Mickey later, and puts his phone in his pocket.

On his way out the door fifteen minutes later, he pauses with his hand on the knob.

He’d blocked off the ability for his clients to schedule appointments with him that night, and he was just planning to wing the two-ish hours before the end of his work hours, hoping if anyone was interested in sending him dick pics, they’d do it via the kestrel app.

But Mickey might text him.

Fuck.

Ian bites his bottom lip and considers.

It’s not like he could just text Mickey to let him know he’s going clubbing. They’re not dating, and they’re basically nothing to each other but a fucking escort and a client when it came down to it.

But Ian doesn’t like the idea of Mickey maybe texting him that night like he does sometimes and not receiving a reply. He might not be back home until four in the morning.

With a resigned sigh, Ian turns around and grabs his work-issued phone from where it sits on the charger. He shoves it down into his other pants pocket, making him look like a bit of a tool--a dude in dark-wash denim skinny jeans with an iPhone bulge in each pocket--and heads out.

\---  
\---

What a fucking mistake.

He should’ve _known_ it was a mistake.

Because one thing Ian Gallagher’s absolute shit at is temperance when in a chaotic environment.

Put on some loud music, get the energy up, and his body feels like a livewire--thrumming and singing, fists out, smiles out, ability to abstain from alcohol as per his doctor’s firm suggestion completely out the fucking window.

In his defense, he just goes with beer--regular, boring beer--while Jake downs shot after shot and Ellie slurps away at vodka martinis. And he knows how even regular, boring beer affects him sometimes--especially when he gets overly confident in his ability to hold his alcohol and downs two pints in the span of half an hour. But fuck, he’s got lipstick on his cheek from where a drag queen named Kat Atonik had posed for pictures with him and Ellie and snuck in a smooch, and his hairline’s sweaty from dancing, and he’s thinking about what it would be like to have a boyfriend to dance with under the falling confetti to an EDM remix of “[I Wanna Dance With Somebody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ga8n5gSlLkA).”

By the time the DJ’s playing a remix of Dua Lipa’s “Levitating,” Ian’s trashed out of his fucking mind.

Later, he’ll vaguely remember _whooooop_ ing like the absolute drunkest little bitch, dancing with Ellie and sometimes Jake, laughing his ass off because everything is just _so fucking funny_.

“Hooooly shit,” he drawls, smacking Jake’s shoulder over and over again, obnoxiously. “It’s your fuckin’ birthday, man.”

“Yeah, it’s my fuckin’ birthday!”

And then Ian _whooooop_ s again, pulling his phone out of his pocket and swiping open Instagram. He goes live for a minute, filming the club, and then films a few stories of himself bopping around.

By the time “[Boys Ain’t Shit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_-s1B8kn_g)” is playing and Ian’s flopped down in a booth with Ellie, who’s on her fourth cocktail and taking pictures of the two of them, he’s sort of reached the point in his drunkenness in which he desperately doesn’t want to be drunk anymore and is trying to convince himself he’s not.

It’s going on midnight, and he’s fumbling with his pack of cigarettes while Ellie’s smacking him, telling him he can’t smoke inside. 

“I’m not too drunk to smoke.”

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Ian rubs his nose with the side of his hand and tries to dig his lighter out of his pocket but pulls out his work-issued phone instead.

Ellie looks over curiously, glitter-shadowed, sleepy, half-lidded eyes wandering over the phone case, which features a teal falcon and _kestrel_ printed beneath it in a swirly font.

“What’s a kestrel?”

Ian shrugs and opens iMessage. “Nunya business.”

She smacks his head and leans over his shoulder, watching him pull up Mickey’s chat thread.

“Lemme see a picture of him,” she says, touching her finger to the screen and dragging down, scrolling up through their texts and pictures.

“Nooo.”

Ian weakly pulls the phone closer to his chest in protest, but ultimately, he decides he doesn’t really give a fuck. He lets her scroll until she finds the picture of him with Jovi cuddled to his shoulder.

“He’s cute.”

“Yeah.”

“Awww. You think he’s cute.”

“I dunno. Shut up.” Ian’s brain feels mushy like mashed peas. He makes a grab for Ellie’s Lemon Drop and takes a slurping sip. “He’s like a really good person, I think.”

“Have you two boned?”

 _Boned_. Ian closes his eyes, scrunches up his face, and laughs breathily. What a stupid fucking way of saying it. 

“Nah,” he says, scrolling back down to the end of their thread and tapping into the message box.

 _Hey_ , he types, then taps over to the emoji keyboard to look for something appropriate. Maybe the heart-eyes emoji. “We played Little League together,” he adds as he searches, swiping over to the heart section. “He got kicked off, though, after like three games.”

Ellie’s eyes wander to his phone screen, and she makes a squeaking sound when she sees what he’s doing. “Don’t you dare!” She makes a grab for his phone, but Ian pulls it away sharply. “You don’t text guys you like when you’re drunk!”

“Why not? I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re wasted as fuck. Gimme.” She holds out her hand, and Ian scoots to the back of the booth to escape her clutches.

He taps on the 😍 and 🙌 but before he can send the message through, Ellie’s punched his shoulder hard enough for him to groan. “Ahhh, fuck! What was that for?”

Ellie looks at him seriously, her dark eyes shiny in the flashing lights of the club. “You’re not gonna drunk text a guy you like that you haven’t had sex with yet.”

Feeling stupidly defiant, Ian sits up straight and puffs out his chest. “Then I’ll just call him.”

“ _Ian_.”

Ian snickers because everything is just _really_ fucking funny. For some reason convinced that he could pretend to call Mickey and piss her off, he opens up Voice Memo and taps record, backing further and further around the half-circle of the booth in order to get away from her as she slowly begins to advance on him.

"Mickey. Hey! It's Ian." 

“Oh my God! You’re gonna get in so much fucking trouble.”

"Shut up. I'm talkin' to Mickey. " 

“Ian, no!”

"I'm _talking_ to Mickey!"

Ellie launches at him and, drunk herself, falls into his lap, causing him to lose his shit. He leans back, holding the phone away from his face, and laughs in this light, carefree way that feels like twinkling in his mouth.

"Anyway. Mickey! I was just thinking about this thing I remember from Little League when I was like nine years old. Remember that?" 

Ellie pushes herself out of his lap and sits up in the booth beside him. “Don’t say stupid shit,” she whispers, trying once more to grab his phone.

"Shut up. I already told you. I'm talking to Mickey. Anyway. Fuck! Little League. Were you the kid that got fucking kicked off for pissing on first base because I was just thinking about it. I dunno, Mickey. I'm real drunk, but I just thought--" 

Ellie shoves him, and Ian has just enough sense to stop the recording and gently, playfully shove her back, which turns into a giggling little half-tickle fight that ends with Ian leaning over her, twisting and turning to get away from the fingers trying to get at his armpits. He grabs her drink with a triumphant, “Ha!” and downs the last, bitter inch of it.

He burps loudly, and she ruffles his hair, and with a snuffly huff, he unlocks his phone, saves the recording, and puts it back in his pocket.

\---

He’s in and out for the rest of the night.

At some point, he remembers jumping up and down to the beat of a “[Barbie Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOI2rRrUl_k)” remix, and he remembers one of the dancers on break telling him to _flash his abs for a dollar_ , and then he remembers collapsing into the back of an Uber with Ellie and then waking up on his couch at seven in the morning needing to piss so badly his bladder aches.

After using the bathroom, he stumbles into his bedroom, drops down onto the bed, and is out like a light until nearly three in the afternoon.

\---

When he wakes, he decides that death would be preferable.

He feels like every ounce of liquid has been drained out of his body. His face hurts, his hair hurts, his brain feels like it’s being squeezed beneath a hydraulic press.

Holy fucking fuck.

 _God_ , and it’s so fucking bright in the room. He pulls the covers over his head and groans.

After several minutes of wishing death upon himself to no avail, he climbs out of bed and makes his way into the kitchen, where he grabs a glass, fills it with water from the tap, and drinks it down three times over. He takes some Advil and heads into the living room to collapse onto the couch.

Ian’s still got on those fucking skinny jeans, and they’re uncomfortable on his skin. He unbuttons and unzips and slowly works them down his thighs, and when they’re to his knees, he feels the weight of the phones in both pockets. He pulls them out and then wiggles the rest of the way out of his jeans, kicking them off onto the floor.

Idly, he checks his notifications on both.

He’s been tagged in like a million Instagram posts from Ellie and Jake, and he groans when he remembers going live and making story posts while he was drunk off his ass like a messy college girl at a frat party.

And _shit_. Mickey follows him on Instagram.

Cringing, he checks his work phone, just knowing in his bones that Mickey’s texted him.

There are no push notifications regarding texts, but he swipes open iMessage anyway, tapping on the chat thread called _Mickey 👊_.

And what he sees makes him want to lean over the side of the couch and hurl up his guts.

At the bottom, the last sent message, is the goddamn voice memo he recorded at the club.

 _Fuck_. No, no, _no_!

Heart pounding, Ian taps open the file and, breath held, gives it a listen, hoping it’s not nearly as bad as he vaguely remembers.

\------------------------

_Mickeeeeeeey. Heeey! It's Ian. Shut uuup. I'm talkin' to Mickey. I'm TALKING. To Mickey! Anyway. Mickey! I was jus' thinkin' about this, this, this like this THING I remember like, like from Little League when I was like nine years old. Remember--_

\------------------------

Motherfucking shit. It’s worse. It’s _so_ much worse.

Ian would shove his phone down the garbage disposal if he didn’t know kestrel’d make him pay half a grand in fines.

He is so fucking stupid. _Such_ a drunk bitch, getting wasted off _two beers_ and recording a voice memo for his _client_ at his _job_ , voice all high-pitched and embarrassing.

And when the fuck did he send it, anyway? He only has the vaguest of memories of trying to listen to it again at some point last night, remembering how his fingers were fumbly as he swiped at his phone.

The message was sent at 5:02 AM, so he must’ve done it as soon as he got home and before he apparently passed out cold on the couch.

 _Fuck_.

Ian grabs at his hair and turns over the phone, laying it face-down on his chest. 

He blows out a breath and then, considering, decides to bite the bullet.

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:11 PM):** Mickey, for all that is good in this world, don't listen to the voice memo. ✌️

\------------------------

He realizes that chances are slim to none that Mickey _hasn’t_ already listened to it. And the fact that Mickey never replies to his message, even after two hours, makes him want to sink into the floor.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:26 PM):** So, I'm assuming you listened to it.

\------------------------

Fuck. 

Was it that big of a turn-off? Did it ruin some illusion Mickey had going about Ian--maybe about him being the perfect escort, boyfriend-material-but-just-for-pretend, this dude he’s paying to banter back and forth with him every day?

Did the message make it weird?

And _shit_ , he really hates himself, because in that moment, he feels his heart drop into his belly and a lump form in his throat. He wants to fucking _cry_. And he _knows_ it’s because he’s hungover and he _knows_ it’s because shit like that fucks with his moods, but all he feels like doing is rolling over onto his stomach on the couch, where he’s been lying for over two fucking hours, press his face into the cushions, and scream.

What if he’s fucked everything up? What if Mickey doesn’t want to talk to him anymore?

He feels like a needy, whiny pussy, but he doesn’t want him to cancel. Mickey makes him so happy, and his stomach hurts thinking of it.

Biting his lip, breath coming out in anxious puffs, he types

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:29 PM):** I should apologize. I was wasted beyond belief. To say I'm a lightweight is the understatement of the century, and I really overdid it last night.

 **Ian (5:32 PM):** It was also extremely unprofessional of me to have sent that shit to a client; not being under the influence during business communication is one of the major rules of the company, and it was completely stupid of me to even have my work phone on me, let alone to use it to contact you while I was trashed. I'm sorry about that, and it won't happen again.

 **Ian (5:35 PM):** I understand if you want to leave a bad review for me, but if there's anything I can do instead, please let me know.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply.

Ian pulls his shirt up over his face and feels like his head’s going to explode.

\---

It occurs to him a couple hours later, when he’s eating a bowl of ramen on the couch he’s barely left since he woke up, that Mickey could very well report him.

Ian’s aware that he’s working himself into a state of paranoia, and if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to spiral, but he can’t help it. 

He knows that there’s no way in hell Mickey--fellow Southside kid, brother of his high school friend--would report him for this shit.

But he _could_.

If he thought Ian was weird enough, he _could_. Maybe he’d try to get his money back by filing a complaint.

Maybe--

His phone _ding_ s, causing his heart to stop.

Hurriedly, he reaches over and snatches it off the coffee table.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:15 PM):** Just chill with the fuckin apologies or whatever. I don't care if you were drunk or if you think it was unprofessional, just stop talking about shit like this like you've got a fuckin gun to your head.

\------------------------

Ian’s breath comes so hard he has to open his mouth. He sets down his half-finished bowl of ramen and, swallowing around the lump in his throat, replies.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** I could get so fucking fired for this, Mickey.

 **Mickey (8:18 PM):** Yeah if I report you. Why the fuck would I do that?

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** Because you're my client, and I was off my shit in that voice memo.

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** Fuck.

 **Ian (8:20 PM):** But I dunno.

 **Ian (8:20 PM):** You wouldn't. I know.

 **Ian (8:21 PM):** I'm just grumpy and paranoid.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply for a minute, and Ian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and considers apologizing again.

But then--

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:22 PM):** Can you just like, not talk about being unprofessional and shit. I'm not a fuckin snitch, I don't give a fuck about your drunk ass leaving me messages, so you're just like wasting your time with this corporate bullshit.

\------------------------

Ian’s heart, which has been tucked somewhere in his small intestine, begins to slowly rise back into his chest cavity. He pulls his naked knees to his chest, leaning back against the couch armrest, and reads and rereads Mickey’s message.

Mickey doesn’t care about Ian leaving him messages.

Mickey didn’t mind hearing his dumb, drunk-ass voice.

Shit.

Ian wipes his hand over his face and blows out a breath.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:24 PM):** Yeah. Sorry.

 **Ian (8:24 PM):** Sorry. I can get like this sometimes.

 **Ian (8:24 PM):** I understand what you're saying.

 **Mickey (8:25 PM):** Just chill. Everything's cool.

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** Thanks.

 **Mickey (8:26 PM):** Yep

\------------------------

Everything’s cool.

Ian feels like someone’s just pulled a bag off his head.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:27 PM):** You alright?

\------------------------

 _Sorry_ , Ian types, lips pressing together. _I was just worried about you thinking I was weird and clingy or something. I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, and I promise it won’t happen again._

He hovers his thumb over the send button but pauses last-second before he presses it.

Mickey doesn’t need to know this shit. He probably doesn’t even care.

Ian erases his message and types something less annoying instead.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** Just hungover. Not feeling great.

 **Mickey (8:32 PM):** Got it

 **Mickey (8:33 PM):** Well you did apparently dance and drink the night away if your Instagram story's any indication

\------------------------

Ian’s lips upturn in a smile, and he’s happy for the change in subject--happy to talk about how dumb he is rather than how much he almost fucked up.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:34 PM):** Fuck. Yeah. Real fucking weird having you on my insta. Definitely not used to this kind of walk of shame. 😑

 **Mickey (8:35 PM):** Ain't nothin to be ashamed of, man

 **Ian (8:36 PM):** A friend from work turned thirty, and a couple of us took him to a club to celebrate. He just went through a bad breakup, so we mostly wanted to get him laid.

 **Mickey (8:36 PM):** It work?

 **Ian (8:37 PM):** Well, he disappeared after about an hour and we never saw him again, so probably?

\------------------------

His breathing’s beginning to even out, heart’s beginning to slow, to settle once more in his chest where it’s supposed to go.

He wants to thank Mickey for being cool about this, and he would if he didn’t think he’d receive back a row of middle finger emojis.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:39 PM):** So like do you hang out with people who work for the app? Do you work in a building with like cubicles and shit?

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** 🤨

 **Ian (8:40 PM):** Oh! No. Friends from my day job. The app's a side gig, really. I couldn't live off it.

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** What's your day job

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** I'm an EMT.

 **Mickey (8:42 PM):** No shit?

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** Yeah. And damn, it's weird being able to talk about this. This shit's like, classified information.

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** So I'm allowed to know that you smoke and that you're an EMT

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** Mm hm. Feel special.

\------------------------

Ian smiles when he thinks back on the question Mara had asked him a couple days prior: _A special guy?_

Special as fuck.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:45 PM):** What do you do? Was I right? Are you a bodyguard?

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** Not even close.

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** Mall security officer

\------------------------

Ian puts his phone down for a moment and buries his face in his knees, which are still pulled against his chest. 

It’s the cutest thing Ian can possibly imagine, Angry Kitten Mickey in a little uniform, strolling the mall and chasing after shoplifters.

 _Fuck_ , why is that so cute? Why is it so hot to imagine him tackling someone on the floor outside Old Navy?

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:48 PM):** That’s probably pretty fun. Bet you’ve got some good stories. 🤛 

**Mickey (8:48 PM):** None involving fisting, sorry

 **Ian (8:49 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (8:49 PM):** Ever tackled anybody?

 **Mickey (8:50 PM):** Yeah, sometimes

 **Mickey (8:50 PM):** The best was a streaker running down the mall. Got to use the cuffs

 **Ian (8:50 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (8:51 PM):** Dirty motherfucker

 **Ian (8:51 PM):** I’m basically a prostitute. It’s my job.

 **Mickey (8:51 PM):** Whatever fuckhead

 **Ian (8:52 PM):** Do you get a taser?

 **Mickey (8:52 PM):** Nah man, just like a walkie and cuffs

 **Mickey (8:53 PM):** It’s really not that interesting

 **Mickey (8:53 PM):** Kinda boring sometimes

 **Ian (8:54 PM):** I’m sure you’re great at it. 😊

 **Ian (8:54 PM):** Do you have a special room with a leather chair where you can watch a wall of security cameras like in the movies? 🤔

 **Mickey (8:55 PM):** Yeah actually

 **Mickey (8:55 PM):** People do gross shit all over the mall

 **Ian (8:56 PM):** 🤛 ?

 **Mickey (8:56 PM):** Dumbass, no

 **Mickey (8:56 PM):** Plenty of people fuckin in the elevators though

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** Hot.

 **Mickey (8:57 PM):** Straight people

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** 😞

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** Bet you got crazy shit goin on at your job

 **Ian (8:58 PM):** Sometimes, yeah. But not always. I spent most of my Friday shift talking to your ass, for example. 😏

 **Mickey (8:59 PM):** I thought you said “not always”

 **Mickey (8:59 PM):** Sounds like a good day to me

 **Ian (8:59 PM):** Eh. 😬

 **Mickey (9:00 PM):** 🖕🖕

\------------------------

Ian rubs his thumb over his chin, feeling the stubble that’s cropped up from not shaving in a day and a half.

Pursing his lips, he decides to ask

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:01 PM):** So you know a couple weeks ago when I said I had a really bad night?

\------------------------

He can tell Mickey about this now that he knows his day job. Typing the words makes the small weight on his chest begin to dissipate, like just the understanding that another human being knows about it makes him ten pounds lighter.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:04 PM):** Well, I was working 10 to 6, and there was a head-on between a passenger van and a school bus coming back from a field trip. It was horrific.

 **Ian (9:05 PM):** Like there were fucking teeth on the pavement and the van looked like an accordion. People were thrown out the front window. There were little kids screaming and covered in blood.

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** It was just one after another. We lost some people. The driver of the van and a couple passengers.

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** Shit, man.

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** Yeah. Bad night. And that shit's hard.

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** But I fucking love my job. It's like the one place in my life where I feel needed and like I make a difference, I guess. Even though that's cheesy as fuck.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t respond to that, but it doesn’t bother Ian. He’s gone way too Hallmark movie, and he’s glad for the chance to change the subject.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** I have the worst headache in the world STILL.

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** Remind me to never drink again.

 **Mickey (9:12 PM):** How much did you drink

 **Ian (9:12 PM):** A lot for me. I’m a lightweight.

 **Mickey (9:13 PM):** Never heard of a irish lightweight before

 **Ian (9:13 PM):** *an 😏

 **Ian (9:13 PM):** Yeah. I dunno. 

**Mickey (9:14 PM):** You must be a fun time at parties

 **Mickey (9:14 PM):** Literally, not even bein sarcastic

 **Ian (9:15 PM):** I just can’t drink much. I usually stay away from it when I can, but I make bad decisions when loud music plays. 

**Mickey (9:15 PM):** Yeah, looked like you were tryin to strip

 **Ian (9:16 PM):** ?!

 **Ian (9:16 PM):** Did I do shit on live? Please tell me no.

 **Mickey (9:17 PM):** No it was in a picture that guy posted

 **Mickey (9:17 PM):** Your friend

 **Ian (9:17 PM):** Oh! 😅

 **Ian (9:18 PM):** Looking at my tagged pics? 😏

 **Mickey (9:19 PM):** You were yelling like a fuckin girl showing her tits on spring break, it was funny as fuck

 **Mickey (9:19 PM):** I was tryin to find out the extent of the damage

 **Ian (9:20 PM):** You’re a dick.

 **Ian (9:20 PM):** But also I sometimes get like that when I’m drunk. Alcohol makes me slutty. 

**Mickey (9:21 PM):** Slutty huh

 **Ian (9:21 PM):** 😈

 **Ian (9:22 PM):** Too bad I can’t really drink. My power has yet to be fully realized.

 **Mickey (9:22 PM):** Your slut powers

 **Ian (9:23 PM):** Yeah. So much unused potential. 

**Mickey (9:25 PM):** I just get punchy when I’m drunk

 **Ian (9:25 PM):** Oh, me too. I’m like 50% horny, 50% fists.

 **Mickey (9:26 PM):** The joke writes itself

 **Ian (9:26 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (9:26 PM):** I’ve never done that before. 

**Mickey (9:27 PM):** Congratulations?

 **Ian (9:27 PM):** Have you?

 **Ian (9:27 PM):** Ever fisted anyone?

 **Mickey (9:28 PM):** Fuck no

 **Ian (9:28 PM):** I mean, I’m not against it or anything. It’s just something I’ve never gotten around to doing. 

**Ian (9:29 PM):** And maybe I’m a little freaked out by it. 

**Ian (9:29 PM):** I’ve done some monster dildo stuff with my clients, though. 😳 (Me to them.)

 **Mickey (9:29 PM):** I ain’t really wantin to stick my entire hand inside some random dude’s asshole

 **Ian (9:30 PM):** I have stories you wouldn’t believe, Mickey. Stories I can’t even begin to tell you about right now for fear of hangover nausea turning into hangover puking.

 **Mickey (9:30 PM):** Yeah keep that shit to yourself

 **Ian (9:31 PM):** What a poetic and entirely appropriate sentence. 

**Mickey (9:31 PM):** Fuck

 **Ian (9:31 PM):** Yeah. 😑

\------------------------

Ian rubs his hands over his face. They’ve been talking for almost an hour, and he’s still on his fucking couch.

He stands up, stretches, and takes his now-cold bowl of ramen to the kitchen.

He feels like shit still, his head still pounding, so he takes two more Advil along with two glasses of water, then takes his meds for the night.

Afterward, he goes to the bathroom, washes his face, and moves to the bedroom to lie down on his bed. The sheets are cool, and his pillow feels soft under his head.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Thanks.

 **Mickey (9:39 PM):** ?

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** For being cool about me being a fucking embarrassing idiot last night.

 **Mickey (9:39 PM):** Yeah yeah, tough guy

 **Mickey (9:39 PM):** Forget about it

 **Ian (9:40 PM):** Maybe.

 **Mickey (9:41 PM):** Just do it and go to sleep you hungover bitch

 **Ian (9:41 PM):** Probably should. Thanks for talking to me. It took my mind off my other shit.

 **Mickey (9:42 PM):** You sure you're ok?

\------------------------

Ian blows a breath up at the ceiling and, for a quick moment, closes his eyes.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Yeah. Thanks for asking.

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** There's just some other stuff that I deal with, I guess, and it makes me weird sometimes. I'll tell you about it another day, maybe.

 **Ian (9:44 PM):** But thanks. Really.

 **Mickey (9:44 PM):** Yep

 **Ian (9:45 PM):** Goodnight, Mickey.

 **Mickey (9:45 PM):** Night

\------------------------

Ian lies there for a while afterward, scrolling through their conversation and thinking about Mickey Milkovich. Thinking about how he wants to tell him things, maybe, and how he wants him to know him for real. He wants to lean against him on the couch and tell him about the fucked up shit going on in his head. He wants him to touch his face. Kiss his cheek. Tell him he’s fine. Everything’s cool.

At a little past ten, he shuts off the lamp on the nightstand, pulls off his T-shirt, and climbs under the covers.

And he’s just about asleep several minutes later when his phone _ding_ s with a text.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:21 PM):** You sell yourself short, you know

\------------------------

In his bleary, half-asleep state, that sentence takes a while for Ian to make sense of. When he figures it out, he still doesn’t understand what Mickey means by it.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:24 PM):** Hm?

 **Mickey (10:24 PM):** I dunno, that stuff you were saying about your job being the only thing that makes you feel like you make a difference. You just sell yourself short

 **Mickey (10:25 PM):** You were probably sleeping but I just wanted to tell you that I guess.

\------------------------

There’s a squeezing sensation in his belly, and Ian feels his cheeks flame up, feels his body grow warm with a flush.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:27 PM):** Thanks, Mickey. 😊

 **Mickey (10:27 PM):** Night

 **Ian (10:28 PM):** Night.

\------------------------

Despite the headache, despite the slight nausea, Ian Gallagher has sweet dreams.

\---  
\---

The week immediately following the Voice Memo Incident is the week everything changes. It’s the week Ian and Mickey start talking for hours every night, texting about everything from the annoying paramedic at work to old Southside drama to their favorites and preferences.

Ian sends Mickey his Spotify username in hopes that he’ll follow him with that dad rock account he’d discovered when he was basically Internet stalking him, but Mickey just criticizes his taste in music, instead.

They talk about TV shows and Ian’s memories with Mandy and how Mickey apparently always thought Ian was a total pussy.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:01 PM):** Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I was an awkward, freckly ginger. But I got in plenty of fights in my day!

 **Mickey (11:01 PM):** What are you, 80??

 **Mickey (11:02 PM):** Pretty sure you’re still an awkward and freckly ginger

 **Ian (11:02 PM):** Yeah, but you’ve gotta admit: I’ve got at least a little game. 😎

 **Mickey (11:02 PM):** Bullshit you got game

 **Ian (11:03 PM):** Skill. Charm.

 **Mickey (11:03 PM):** The only reason I’m still here is cuz I’m bored, you know that right

 **Ian (11:03 PM):** Whatever you say. 😏 I know a friend when I see one.

 **Mickey (11:04 PM):** You see so few, it’s gotta come as a fuckin shock

 **Ian (11:04 PM):** How do you know I’m not Mr. Popular?

 **Mickey (11:04 PM):** Everything about you tells me you’re not Mr. Popular

 **Ian (11:05 PM):** Gee thanks, Mickey. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.

 **Mickey (11:05 PM):** Don’t mention it

 **Mickey (11:08 PM):** Hey, you wanna pic of my goddamn cat

 **Ian (11:08 PM):** 😱

 **Ian (11:08 PM):** It’s been so long!

 **Ian (11:09 PM):** Send me a pic of Jovi and a pic of Jovi’s dad.

 **Mickey (11:09):** You’re fuckin lame Gallagher

\------------------------

He still sends them, though.

Five minutes later, Ian receives a picture of Jovi perched like a majestic beast of a jungle cat on the kitchen counter, followed by a picture of Mickey taken on self-timer. It looks like he’s got his phone in the center of his kitchen table, and he’s leaned in and tilting his head to the side, eyes squinted like he’s trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:11 PM):** One beautiful creature and one giant dork.

 **Mickey (11:11 PM):** That’s not very nice

 **Mickey (11:12 PM):** I’m gonna tell him you said that

 **Ian (11:12 PM):** That I said his dad’s a giant dork? Believe me, he knows. 😏

 **Mickey (11:12 PM):** Takes one to know one

 **Ian (11:13 PM):** Oooh. You got me there.

 **Ian (11:13 PM):** Really, you should be proud of that one.

 **Mickey (11:14 PM):** Ok fuckhead

 **Ian (11:14 PM):** If you can’t take the heat...

 **Mickey (11:14 PM):** 🖕🖕

 **Ian (11:15 PM):** Anyway, I like your shirt.

 **Ian (11:15 PM):** Radiohead’s great. 👍

 **Mickey (11:16 PM):** Surprised you know Radiohead, it’s a little different from fuckin Lizzo

 **Ian (11:16 PM):** I’m like chardonnay, get better over time. 🕺

 **Ian (11:17 PM):** Mickey, I just really love that you’ve been so thoroughly going through my Spotify account. I’m glad you care.

 **Mickey (11:17 PM):** Not goin through your Spotify dickhead

 **Ian (11:17 PM):** Mmhm. Okay. 😏

 **Mickey (11:18 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------  
\---

After a week of texting endlessly to the point that Ian’s sort of been neglecting his other clients, he thinks, _Fuck it. I like you so much, and I want to hear your voice._

He’s eating cereal at the kitchen table on Friday night, watching Netflix on his phone while he munches away at his Cinnamon Toast Crunch. 

Something on the show makes him think about Mickey--a dumb joke told by one of the characters that Ian knows he’d hate--and with a smirk, he pauses Netflix, swipes over to the camera app, and takes a picture of himself holding up his cereal bowl and raising his eyebrows.

Barely fifteen seconds later, Mickey replies. 

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** 🙄

\------------------------

Ian chuckles and takes a bite of his cereal.

As he crunches away, he taps his fingers idly against the wood of the kitchen table and feels like taking the biggest chance of his and Mickey’s relationship thus far.

Mickey’s paying $65.99 a week to call and FaceTime with him, and so far, all they’ve been doing is texting.

If he hadn’t been at least _a little_ interested in the other parts of the package, no way would he have upgraded.

Right?

Setting down his spoon, Ian swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He considers. _What’s the worst that could happen? Mickey saying no?_

Biting his lip, he strokes the side of the kestrel phone case with his thumb and, scrunching up his face in a near-cringe, sends the most important text he’s sent yet.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:47 PM):** How do you feel about phone calls?

 **Ian (8:48 PM):** Can I call you?

\------------------------

Ian thinks he might melt into a liquid and seep down between the cracks in the floorboards.

His body feels like it’s losing solidity, and his heart pounds so hard he thinks it can be heard across the room.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:49 PM):** Ok

\------------------------

Fuck. 

_Really_?

Ian scrambles, getting up from the kitchen table and grabbing an Orange Crush from the fridge.

Once back at the table, he cracks open the can, takes a nervous slurp, and picks up his phone.

The process of opening up his contacts and tapping Mickey’s name feels surreal--the sound of the phone ringing even more so.

And when Mickey answers after the fourth ring, Ian feels like everything in his life has led up to this moment.

...

“Uh, hey.”

Mickey's voice is low like he hasn’t spoken aloud in a while. Ian’s immediately so fond of it he has to pass a hand over his face to keep himself in check.

“Mickey,” he says, feeling and likely sounding like a gleeful little kid.

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a minute, and Ian bites the insides of his cheeks, holding back a smile through the silence that feels sweet like spun sugar.

It’s Mickey who finally breaks the silence, his grumpy voice asking, “Are you eating your fuckin' Wheaties again?” 

Ian scoffs. “What'd you have for dinner that's so much better?”

“Mac and cheese.”

“From a blue box?”

“No, asshole. Something my landlady made. And who fuckin' cares? It's actual food.”

“I eat actual food, you dick.” And then Ian just crumbles, a grin he’s been biting back shattering across his face like a crack in a mirror. “I just like sending you pictures every time I'm having cereal to piss off your cranky ass.”

He grabs his spoon, feeling more comfortable already, and takes a bite of his Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“Tell me about your landlady,” Ian says, mid-chew. “She must like you.”

Mickey hums, and the corners of Ian’s lips upturn in a smile, even as he continues to chew.

“Who the hell knows why.”

“Just so you know, I’m undecided about whether I still think you’re way softer in real life than you act through texting. Leaning toward a yes.”

“Fuck you.”

Ian snickers, loving the way those words sound coming out of his mouth. It’s better than a million middle finger emojis.

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Callaghan.”

“And she just like, cooks you dinner? Kinda unusual for a landlady.”

“Yeah. I dunno. She’s fuckin’ crazy, man.”

Ian thinks he hears the crackle of cigarette paper burning up as Mickey smokes. There’s a slight puff of static, and Ian imagines him blowing a sexy stream of smoke into the air.

He smiles. “Can’t believe we’re actually talking on the phone.”

“Kinda weird.”

“Yeah. Do I sound the way you imagined?”

There’s a loud snort, and Ian bites his lip at it. “There’s less slurring than I imagined based on the last time I heard your voice.”

“Fuck off. Friends don’t bring up their friends’ embarrassing moments.”

“Pretty sure that’s exactly what they do, lightweight motherfucker.”

“Ahh. We’re friends? I knew it.” Ian adopts an exaggeratedly soft tone of voice. “Mickey, you’re so sweet.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuckhead.”

“Oh my God, you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

“Ain’t met you. Fuck off.”

“We met when we were kids.”

There’s that staticky puff again--the blowing out of cigarette smoke. “Yeah, well, unless you still got those bangs, it’s safe to say we’re different people now.”

“Mmhm.” Ian pauses for a moment to tip up the cereal bowl and drink the milk. When he’s done, he gets up and walks his bowl to the sink.

“I remember you,” he muses, voice light. “You were like, four feet tall until you were fifteen.”

“Bullshit.”

“Maybe, but you _were_ short. You were the smallest one on the Little League team when we were kids.”

“Fuck you, ya alien-lookin’ asshole.”

Ian cracks up at that, running a hand through his hair and making his way into the bedroom. “How tall are you now? I don’t really remember.”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“I didn’t ask you your dick size, Mickey.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

With a wry smile, Ian climbs onto his bed and stretches out on his back. “If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna assume you’re like, five-four.”

“The fuck you will.”

“Five-three, then.”

Mickey scoffs.

“Oh fuck, man. Five-two?”

“I’m five-seven, ya annoyin’ motherfucker.”

Cute as hell. Ian tosses an arm over his eyes and scrunches up his face, trying to contain this absolutely ridiculous feeling, heart thumping and ribcage feeling too large for his chest.

“Was that so hard?”

“It’s fuckin’ average.”

“Mm. I dunno about _that_. I promise not to call you Shorty to your face, though.”

Ian hears a soft little hitch down the line that sounds suspiciously like stifled laughter.

His heart squeezes, and his stomach fills with butterflies, and all he wants to say is, _Fuck, I like you, Mickey._

Instead, he settles for letting himself laugh, and he _wants to die_ when Mickey does it, too, as if finally giving himself permission to let go.

He’s beautiful.

\---

They talk for fifteen more minutes about random, inconsequential shit that eventually turns into Ian telling Mickey he needs to “pay up” with more photos of himself, as Ian’s already three ahead of him for the week.

Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, okay. What the fuck'd you even want pictures of, anyway?”

“Ooh, are we taking requests now?”

“No. Fuck you.” There’s a breathy puff of laughter. “And anyway, I'm sure you've got like ten old dudes sendin' ya pictures of their wrinkly sacks.”

Ian grins. “Mmm. And as hot as that is...” 

“So how many clients _do_ you have?”

Ian’s surprised as hell at the question--not that Mickey asked it in general but that he asked it in that moment, when they’re talking on the phone for the first time. It feels like a question to ask through a text. Feels like it’s a little dangerous to talk about.

He sucks at his bottom lip. “Like, eight? There's actually a few I haven't heard from in a while, but they're still subscribed, so.”

There’s a pause, and Ian’s stomach flips a little with nerves. Why are they talking about this? He twists onto his side and curls his arm under his head, waiting for Mickey’s response.

And when it comes, his insides turn to molten lava. His heart gives a kick.

“Bet I'm the only one movin' at a snail's pace,” Mickey murmurs, like he’s shy. Like he’s worried.

He’s nervous about moving too slowly, and all this time Ian’s just been growing impossibly warm and soft for him.

Mickey’s _moving_. His statement implies they’re moving toward something, and the thought alone makes Ian’s breath quick.

“Yeah, but.” He shrugs to no one, pressing his lips together briefly. “It's actually kinda nice. Most of my clients buy the Gold Package and wanna do video stuff in like the first week. Mostly it's older closeted men who wanna talk to me and watch me jerk off. Which is fine. But, y'know. I like this.”

Ian breathes in soft little puffs against the receiver.

“So how'd you get into this?” Mickey asks after a couple minutes of silence.

 _Fuck_. His least favorite story to tell. He runs a hand over his face and blows out a breath.

“Ehhh. I like sex. I'm good at it. Why not do something you like for some extra money?” He rolls over onto his back. “I'm not like, a victim or anything, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Fuck no. That's not what I'm wondering.”

Ian swallows hard and considers how much is too much to tell him.

“I haven't always done it from a healthy mindset, and, y'know, that's something we can talk about later, but right now I'm doing it for me. I'm.” He pauses. Exhales a slow, drawn-out breath. “I'm trying real hard to be like, I dunno, a productive fuckin' member of society, I guess, and I want to like, have savings and plans for the future, and working through the app helps me do that. Otherwise, I'd be throwing my entire salary into my apartment, and I wouldn't have anything for me.”

He wants things for him, really. That’s all. He wants to be able to be his own person--to have a life, to have a job he loves and maybe a house and someone to come home to every night. He wants to not constantly think about his brain and his meds and all his goddamn fuck-ups.

Mostly, he wants to be happy.

“The American Fuckin' Dream,” Mickey murmurs, and he sounds thoughtful.

“You got it.”

\---

All Ian can think about after they’ve hung up is how goddamn gone he is in the most adolescent way imaginable.

He swipes open the picture of Mickey cuddling Jovi from the week before and zooms in on his goofy face and his F-U-C-K knuckles and the tiniest little belly roll he has at the bottom of the frame.

He’s so fucking _cute_ , and his personality makes Ian want to bonk him on the head and then kiss the sore spot.

Mickey makes him feel good, and he makes him forget, and all he wants to do from this point forward is to know him more and more every day.

\---

Ian had been mostly joking about Mickey needing to “pay up,” but he does it, anyway. At a little past 11:30, as Ian’s settled in bed to go to sleep, his phone _ding_ s with three pictures. 

The first is a picture of Jovi lying asleep in a little curl on what looks like Mickey’s blue comforter. 

The second is a picture of a Tupperware container, empty save for bits and pieces of stray macaroni.

The third makes Ian feel like someone has injected him with helium and opened a window, sending him sailing through the air, up fucking up, up.

Mickey’s shirtless, standing in front of a full-length mirror and wearing only a pair of navy boxers. He’s flipping off the camera and pulling his little twisted-mouth-badass face, but Ian can tell he was nervous to take this, and it makes him smile with affection.

The boxers hit him at mid-thigh and are slightly fitted, and he’s got just the tiniest bit of quads showing, like he’s naturally a little muscular rather than like he's someone who works out. He’s not sucking in this time, his stomach all-around sweet and soft with just the hint of abs beneath, and Ian couldn’t be more fond if he tried.

In response, he switches on his nightstand lamp and snaps a picture of himself with the covers pulled up to his waist. 

Mickey doesn’t respond, and that fact almost makes Ian happy. There’s weight in his lack of sarcastic reply, maybe. Hopefully. More than anything, he just hopes Mickey liked it. He hopes he likes what they have together and that it makes Mickey just as happy as it makes him.

Fuck, he likes him. He likes him so much.

Biting his lip, Ian swipes back over to iMessage and taps into the message box. 

And, without a moment of hesitation, he types

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:47 PM):** I like talking to you.

\------------------------

He hopes Mickey feels every word.

\---  
\---

Over the next couple weeks, their calls go from the occasional, _Can I call you?_ whenever Ian wants to tell Mickey a story that would take too much time via text, to Ian not even bothering to ask first--just tapping Mickey’s name on his recent calls list and smiling at his joking, “The fuck you want?”

Mostly, there’s a lot of banter, their teasing remarks over text transitioning smoothly over to phone calls. Ian calls Mickey out on his tough guy bullshit, Mickey tries his best to insult Ian in a way that only makes him laugh, and then they tell each other about their days while they smoke cigarettes or have their dinner.

It’s friendly, and it’s fun, and it makes Ian feel good to know that he has a genuine friend he can joke with and talk to when he’s feeling down. It makes his life feel softer, pillowed somehow, like a life net waiting below to catch him after he’s been flung out a window.

\---

He has a bad session with Ken, whom he thinks of in his head as the Come Guy due to the fact that he’s obsessed with Ian’s jizz. 

After having been working with kestrel for over a year and a half, Ian’s used to asshole clients treating him like shit. It isn’t exactly new, the experience of being ridiculed or teased in a meanspirited way--of being treated like he’s a worthless piece of shit over video chat. 

He’s used to it, and he knows that 99% of the time, it’s part of the fantasy. The client wants to be dominant, wants to feel like he’s powerful and like a _man_ , whatever that means. Even, sometimes, wants to treat Ian like shit because it feels safe. It makes the client feel less gay after he’s blown his load to Ian jerking off into a pair of women’s underwear.

But the problem with Ken is that Ian’s fairly certain he’s truly a power-hungry cuntface that he’d like to strangle with his bare fucking hands.

It’s Thursday night, and Ian’s lying against a pile of pillows on the futon mattress, belly streaked with come and breath elevated, blood singing from orgasm.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ trashy,” Ken says, voice critically harsh, panting himself after he’d finished with an obnoxiously loud groan. “Look at yourself, you dirty fuckin’ whore. Wipe that shit off. Fucking nasty.”

Ian’s stomach clenches, and he quickly sits up, feeling off-kilter and sick. He fucking hates this. He _hates_ this.

He doesn’t give a shit, usually, and he’ll even entertain a little light play of this nature if the client’s a nice person who just gets off on that kind of thing. But Ken’s words feel different. They make Ian hate himself. They make him feel gross, his body flooded with what he likens to an extreme form of Masturbator’s Remorse, this intense moment of repulsion, of _Why did I do that? Why am I so disgusting?_

“Get up, you fuckin’ whore,” Ken continues as Ian pushes up onto his knees and reaches for the towel he keeps nearby. 

Ian swipes at his chest, cheeks red, and then drops the towel onto his lap to hide his nudity.

“Anything else?” he asks, the gentleness of his voice belying his utter hatred.

He watches as Ken, gray-haired and red-faced, smirks and picks up a mug of coffee. “You have more in you? I bet you do.”

\---

Ian feels bad about it all night, Ken’s ugly fucking face working its way into his head while he’s trying to relax.

He showers after the session, scarfs down a PB&J, and takes his meds with some Sunny D straight from the jug.

He and Mickey have been texting off-and-on all day, and they’d even said goodnight right before Ian’s 10:30 session with Ken, but as the clock ticks its way to midnight, then a little after, all Ian can think about is that he wants to talk to him. He wants to lay his head on his shoulder.

“Gallagher?” Mickey asks in greeting, a hoarseness in his voice like he’s been sleeping.

“Hey. Yeah. Sorry.”

“What’s up? You alright?”

“Yeah.” Ian huffs a breathy laugh and sits down on the side of his bed. He wiggles out of his shorts, leaving him in boxers and a hole-filled Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt he’s had since he was fifteen, and collapses backward onto the mattress.

“Whatcha callin’ for?”

“Just… I dunno. My client’s a dick.”

Mickey _hm_ s. “What’d he do?”

Ian tells him the story, voice gruff and quick with building irritation.

Telling Mickey makes his heart pound. It feels dangerous, feels wrong, an escort telling his client about another client. But in the moment, all Ian cares about is that life net, is the way Mickey makes him feel. He wants comfort, and he wants banter, and he wants Mickey to call him a fuckhead and make him laugh.

When Ian’s done with his story, Mickey exclaims, voice sharp, “Are you _fucking_ this guy?”

“Just video.” 

Ian wants to say, _He makes my stomach hurt_ and _You’re my favorite client. Do you know that?_

But what he ends up saying is, “And he mostly just likes to watch me masturbate and ejaculate on stuff—objects, my stomach, the fuckin' camera lens—so it's not bad or anything. I just wish he'd shut the fuck up.”

“You tried telling him to shut the fuck up?”

Ian smiles. “Nah. It's business. Just irritates me.”

“Want me to knock him around for ya?”

His smile turns into a full-blown laugh, and his insides start to creep back to where they’re supposed to be, Mickey a lockpick pressing on his pins, one-by-one, maneuvering him into place. 

“Easy, killer,” he chuckles, belly light. “He's like, seventy. But thanks.”

“You're not _gonna_ fuck him, are you?”

Ian blows out a breath at that, heart hammering like a goddamn battering ram against a door. “Hell no. I'll just drop him if he tries to upgrade.”

He runs his hands over his face and bites his lip. _Shit_ , he likes him, and he probably shouldn’t, and his heart shouldn’t feel like this over a guy he met on an app.

“Fuck,” he says. “I shouldn't be talking about this shit. You're gonna leave me a bad review when all's said and done.”

“Yeah. Terrible fuckin' review.”

“Mm. What would you say?” Ian smiles. He can’t fucking help it.

“I dunno.” There’s a little staticky puff of laughter. “Told dumb jokes. Ate fuckin' cereal for dinner. Demanded daily pictures of my cat.”

“I like your cat.”

“Liked my cat more than me.”

“Well, that's true. Go ahead and post that.”

Not true. It’s not true at all.

He grins like a motherfucker, cheeks warm with a flush, feeling the tension from earlier, the lack of confidence, the self-loathing, the sourness in his stomach, melting away.

Suddenly, he’s tired, the time catching up to him. He yawns.

“Alright, go to bed,” Mickey grumbles like an exasperated parent. 

“Sorry for keeping you up so late. Thanks for listening to me vent.”

“Yeah, yeah. What-” There’s a pause, then a high, breathy yawn. “-ever.”

God, he’s cute. Ian strokes the back of his phone with his index finger, a tender little rub, and says, voice soft, “Night, Mick. Sleep tight.”

“Night, Gallagher.”

Ian’s smiling when he ends the call and sets his phone back down on the nightstand.

 _Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich_.

He pulls the covers up to his chin and rolls onto his side, settling in to sleep, his belly warm and his mind clear.

He’s worked himself into a light doze, his body hanging on to just the last bits of wakefulness before dropping off into sleep, when his phone chimes.

Eyes closed, he makes a blind grab for his phone and then, opening them, squints at the brightness of his screen when he swipes open his texts.

And Ian’s expecting it to be something silly and stupid. Maybe a picture of Jovi. Maybe a middle-finger emoji. Maybe a bit of light teasing in retaliation for having woken Mickey up earlier.

But it isn’t any of those things.

Instead, it’s something that makes his stomach flop, makes warmth tingle up his spine, makes him feel utterly and completely comforted in a way that he desperately needs.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:31 AM):** I like talking to you too

\------------------------

Ian reads and rereads those six words, a belated return to what he sent a little over a week prior.

He reads them, and he purses his lips, and he thinks that one day--one day soon--he’s going to fall in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 4  
> -In his self-timer kitchen table photo, Mickey’s wearing the “you’ll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking” Radiohead tour shirt that he puts on after he and Ian have sex for the first time.
> 
> -During his 1 AM phone call with Mickey, Ian’s wearing [the Ozzy shirt](https://i.ibb.co/G2nfvj0/Screen-Shot-2020-10-02-at-8-24-32-PM.png) he has on beneath a flannel in s1.
> 
> -Ellie looks like Camila Mendes in my mind.
> 
> -Ian one million percent had more than the two beers that night. The two beers got him initially wasted, but he kept drinking some of Ellie’s drinks for the rest of the night. He doesn’t really remember all that much.
> 
> -I love writing Ian and Mickey’s conversations and banter more than anything. <33
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! And thanks for your continued patience as I get this out as quickly as I can. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Love, love,
> 
> Gray


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He likes him so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian can’t even deny it.
> 
> This was so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy! Thanks for sticking with me!

Ian jerks off just about as much as any guy, really. 

He does it most days of the week if he isn’t getting laid, rubbing one out in the shower or slipping his hand down the front of his boxers before bed. He’s not artful about it; it takes him between four and ten minutes depending on his dedication to the task, and he usually either watches pretty run-of-the-mill porn or closes his eyes and thinks about scenes from said run-of-the-mill porn.

He doesn’t have a rich, intense sexual history full of A+ masturbatory material--everything after he was an awkward, enthusiastic kid nothing but forgettable one-night stands, a couple equally forgettable fuck buddies, shit he _wishes_ he could forget, and the mixed bag that is his kestrel experiences. “Hot Roommate Bareback Fuck” and “making my bf cum TWICE!!!” get the job done just fine.

That is until Mickey starts sending him shirtless pictures.

Ian feels only _slightly_ weird about it when he squirts a dollop of lube on his palm and slicks up, left hand swiping through his camera roll where he has four shirtless Mickey photos in a row.

He spends a lot of time on the most recent one--a shot of Mickey wearing green plaid boxers a little lopsided at the waist. It’s a closer shot than normal, his head just barely in view and his brows furrowed, lips twisted up in that same attempt at a badass expression, and the way the light hits his stomach gives Ian a glimpse of the barely-visible, fine wisps of hair trailing below his navel.

It makes him feel like a horndog in the worst way, jerking it to an all-around pretty innocent picture that’s objectively more cute than sexy. But he can’t help but smile when he’s close to orgasm, eyes wandering over Mickey’s face and his wrinkled brows and that freckle beside his belly button and thinking about how he wants nothing more than to smoosh his face against his stomach and breathe him in. Give him playful, smacking kisses because Ian thinks he’d laugh.

He wants to think Mickey’s sweet in bed--playfully bossy and snarky through the foreplay, delirious and complimentary during, and all slow, soft, gentle touches and smears of kisses afterward.

He wants to think Mickey smiles as he pants. Runs his fingers up and down his partner’s sweaty sides. Maybe frames his partner’s face and touches their noses together so they can breathe hot breath against each other’s mouths.

He _wants_.

\---

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:11 AM):** Why do you always make that face? 🤨

\------------------------

he texts him once he’s done, tissues lying in a little crumple on his nightstand to be thrown away later, breath still quick and coming in soft puffs.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:13 AM):** What face

 **Mickey (12:14 AM):** Go to sleep

 **Ian (12:14 AM):** It’s not a school night, Mom. 🖕

 **Ian (12:15 AM):** Your eyebrow thing.

 **Ian (12:15 AM):** I dare you to send me a picture of you smiling. 😎

 **Mickey (12:15 AM):** Ain’t gotta send you pictures at all

 **Ian (12:16 AM):** 😞

 **Mickey (12:16 AM):** Jesus christ, go to bed

 **Mickey (12:16 AM):** I’ve been talkin to you all fuckin day

 **Ian (12:17 AM):** Wow. 

**Ian (12:17 AM):** I see how it is then. 🖕

\------------------------

Ian bites his lip while he waits for Mickey to reply.

And when the reply comes in, he grins and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the floppy bits back off his forehead.

Mickey sends a chest-up picture of himself, shirtless but wrapped in a blue comforter. He’s in bed, and his eyes look sleepy like Ian’s woken him up, and Jovi’s snuggled up on the pillow near his head.

He looks so fucking _grumpy_ , all rumpled and eyebrow-y and squinty like the light from his nightstand lamp is hurting his eyes.

Ian wants to kiss his mouth.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:19 AM):** You’re not smiling. 😞

 **Mickey (12:19 AM):** I don’t give a fuck. Night

 **Ian (12:19 AM):** Night, Mickey.

 **Mickey (12:20 AM):** 👊

 **Ian (12:20 AM):** 😉

\------------------------

He’s reached a point now in which he _knows_ Mickey’s joking, if only because he’s begun starting conversations almost as often as Ian does, their “talkin all fuckin day” that day having consisted of an even smattering of texts from both of them, followed by a Mickey-started text conversation after dinner that turned into Ian calling him to talk for nearly an hour.

So yeah, he _knows_ Mickey’s joking, but Ian does have a bit of a clench in his belly at the thought that he likely woke him up on a weeknight, even if the picture is one he immediately saves to his camera roll and stares at with what feels like an expanding bubble in his chest.

But he just _can’t help it_. He’s fucking addicted to talking to him, his days now seemingly filled with Moments Of and Moments Between Conversations with Mickey Milkovich. Ian finds himself at work thinking about what he’s going to tell him after his shift--considering the interesting things that happened to him that day and wondering if any of them would be something Mickey might like to hear about.

He listens to music on the L train home and has to squeeze his hands into fists to contain the energy he gets from imagining himself sending the song to Mickey, from imagining them maybe one day listening to it together in person. Dancing to it. Laughing about something with it playing in the background. Kissing while they cook dinner and fill the kitchen with sound.

Ian’s almost twenty-four. He’s too fucking old to be feeling like this all the time--basically outright obsessing over his crush in the most pathetic way possible--but there’s no way else for him to be. Mickey is the most incredible, interesting, _fun_ thing he’s had in his life since before he can remember, since Before in capitals--Before he was seventeen--and he makes him feel more alive than he thinks he’s felt in his entire life.

He makes him feel like he doesn’t want to sleep. Doesn’t want to eat. Wants to run his goddamned eight miles and take stupid, sweaty selfies afterward and hope Mickey sends him back something equally stupid.

He makes him get back on a workout schedule because moving his body feels good again. Makes him buy a multi-pack of boxer briefs at Target because maybe they’re just a little bit sexier than his shorts. Makes him _look forward_ to shit for the first time in a long time because he thinks he and Mickey might be _something_ someday, even if that something is simply buds who meet at the bar after work or get high and play video games on Saturday nights after grabbing dinner together just for fun.

The problem is that Mickey also makes him feel afraid.

Ian rolls his pill bottle against his palm after taking his dose, and he worries something’s happening in his brain.

He feels like fucking Fiona, who used to stare at him obnoxiously warily when he’d be hyped up for normal human reasons. Ian imagines a carbon-copy of himself sitting across the room, watching his original self smile while he cooks dinner and thinks about something Mickey said. He imagines that copy squished up beside him on the train, peering into his bright, happy eyes when he chooses a selfie to text. He imagines him looking at him from his doorway when it’s almost two in the morning and Ian’s still staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep because he feels like his blood’s racing through his veins, like his muscles are jumping, itching with the need to move, move, move.

Mara tells him she’s happy that he’s happy. That he’s _allowed_ to be happy. That his diagnosis doesn’t mean that there’s suddenly no such thing as giddiness, as crushes, as butterflies in your stomach and energy that comes from feeling good.

He’s _not_ hypomanic, he doesn’t think. He eventually falls asleep, and he _does_ eat because his stomach gets all growly, and he has none of the one-two-punch of feeling like he wants to fucking float through the sky like a goddamned cloud while also wanting to tear something to shreds to expel the thrum bubbling up under his skin.

Ian’s _happy_. Mickey makes him happy. 

He doesn’t know what’s going on in his brain right now--whether it’s cooking up something, whether it’s gearing up to kick his ass one unsuspecting morning--but he just knows that he feels good as fuck and he wants to kiss Mickey Milkovich’s stomach and he wants to tell him about his day.

He wants to _progress_ this shit. Wants to talk to him on FaceTime and meet him in person and press his palms gently to the sides of his face as he touches their mouths together.

He wants to make him smile.

He’s afraid, and he doesn’t know how long this is all going to last. Realistically, he’s a ticking time bomb, destined to explode. But he can’t help but want what he can have while he can have it.

He wants Mickey Milkovich.

\---  
\---

Two nights later, Ian’s leaned over the kitchen counter, idly munching on some Cheerios while scrolling through Instagram when he smirks, wheels turning.

“Okay, Mickey,” he says, tapping the icon to add to his story and selecting Superzoom Hearts. “Let’s see how you like this.”

He artfully videos his bowl of cereal and then adds _Dinner of Champions_ in a cheesy, swirly pink font to match the obnoxious romantic music on the video. It’s stupid as hell, but he tags Mickey and posts it, biting his lip all the while, imagining the uptilt of Mickey’s lips and hoping it makes his heart feel good even as it makes him want to throttle him.

The text comes in barely a minute later.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (7:17 PM):** You need to eat a meal like a fuckin adult

\------------------------

What if? 

Ian purses his lips and takes several slow, deep breaths before replying, heart hammering because what he’s going to say is a bit of a risk, even if he is mostly joking.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:19 PM):** Are you asking me on a date?

\------------------------

He takes a bite of his cereal and chews furiously while he waits for a response.

A response that doesn’t come.

After a full minute, Ian quickly sends an emoji to cover his ass, then changes the subject.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:20 PM):** 😉

 **Ian (7:20 PM):** I can't seem to make a habit of having a well-stocked fridge. Mostly I just pick something up or order out.

 **Ian (7:21 PM):** I do make a mean breakfast, though. I'm the fucking Wolfgang Puck of flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs.

\------------------------

He takes another bite of cereal and well, fuck it, he calls him. Texting’s fine and fun, but they both know where it’ll eventually go that night: the same place it’s been going every night for the past week.

The phone only goes half a ring before Mickey answers, voice sounding like he’s about to reach through the line and smack Ian upside the head.

“Can you take a fuckin' breath or something?” 

Unbothered, Ian chuckles and heads to the fridge to get a Coke. “Do you cook?” he asks, leaning in to snatch a can that’s rolled to the back.

“No, but I know how to buy groceries and like, boil and microwave shit.”

“Then your judgment is not welcome.”

“Too bad.” 

Ian huffs out a gentle laugh through his nose as he carries the Coke back over to the counter where his bowl rests. He bites his lip and taps his finger against the back of his work phone.

 _Shit_ , he likes this grumpy motherfucker.

“Hey, by the way,” he says in a belated greeting, a smile creeping onto his face, unable to be stopped.

“Hey.”

Ian shuffles his socked feet against the kitchen floor and thinks about Mickey’s grumpy face and his soft belly and the fact that Ian so desperately wants to see him smile unobstructed, no middle finger in the way.

With a heavy sigh--exhaling the nervous energy beginning to build within him--Ian rambles quickly, as if afraid if he waits any longer he’ll chicken out. “So, if you're gonna continue to judge my dinner, I have a solution.”

Mickey makes a _hm_ noise, distracted. “What's that?”

“How 'bout next time I'm about to make a questionable food decision, we FaceTime and you help me make a better choice?”

And just like that, his heart’s in his throat, this painful lump Ian has trouble swallowing around. Adrenaline surges through his veins and leaks out under his skin more and more the longer Mickey doesn’t say anything.

He wiggles his toes anxiously in his socks. “We can like, look through my fridge and cabinets and shit and you can help me whip up something.”

 _Fuck_ , this sounds like such bullshit. Ian half wants to duck his head and cover his face with the neck of his shirt.

Mickey blows out a breath, creating a quick burst of static, and grumbles, “Or you can go to the grocery store.”

“Or we can FaceTime like I suggested.” There’s an uptilt to the end of _suggested_ , like Ian’s asking a question. He hopes he sounds confident and snarky even as he shifts nervously from foot to foot as he takes a second to pop the tab on his Coke.

And he’s mostly convinced that Mickey isn’t going to respond at all, that he’s going to tell him to fuck off and then change the subject, when he hears a quiet, “Whatever, man.”

Ian’s face cracks into a full-on grin. “Is that a 'yes'?”

“It's a 'whatever.'”

“So, it's a 'yes'...?”

“Fine. Yeah. Whatever.”

Ian rubs his hand back and forth across his mouth, smothering his smile before adding with put-upon sarcasm, “Glad you're so enthused.”

His bones tingle. He’s going to FaceTime with Mickey one day. He’s going to get to see his face move. Will get to see him smile, maybe. Quirk his brow. Lick his lips.

He exhales slowly through pursed lips, trying to get a hold of himself.

\---

They talk for twenty minutes more about random shit, Ian mostly using the time to egg Mickey into argument after argument because he loves playfully fighting with him more than just about anything.

After discussing movies they used to watch as teenagers, they talk about who’s hotter: Steven Seagal or Jean-Claude Van Damme, then move on to music and Mickey’s annoyingly incessant assertion that the only valid genres are eighties and nineties rock.

“Look,” Ian says from where he rests now, sitting on the sill of his open window, smoking. “I’m not sayin’ you’re an old man with no taste, but I’m sayin’ that it _sounds like_ you’re an old man with no taste.”

“ _You_ look, motherfucker. There’s a reason this shit’s classic. In fifty fuckin’ years, people are still gonna be listenin’ to “Livin’ on a fuckin’ Prayer” and there ain’t nobody gonna be listening to whatever the fuck you just played me.”

“I’m not _saying_ it’s better, worse, or will stand the test of time more than Bon Jovi, whose dick you apparently wanna suck--”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ian snickers while finishing with, “--but I like fun shit, too, and there’s nothin’ wrong with just likin’ music ‘cause it makes you happy.”

“[That fuckin’ song’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYxnofViYHo) gonna be in my fuckin’ head, you dick. I’ve got a fuckin’ headache already.”

“You wanna say ‘fuckin’’ again there, Mickey?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ehhh.” Ian takes a hard final drag off his cigarette and drops it onto the street two stories below, watching the faint orange light at the tip hit the ground and smother out. “That song has the lyric, ‘You’re my tiny little boyfriend,’ and I think it’s fuckin’ hilarious.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I dunno.” Ian swings his legs out over the sill and dangles them out his window. “It’s talkin’ about you, I guess.” He smirks.

Mickey’s quiet for too long, and Ian’s heart leaps when he realizes how his statement inadvertently sounded.

“Y’know,” he recovers, squeezing his left eye shut in a cringe. “You’d be someone’s tiny little boyfriend.”

Ian wants to punch himself in the face because he just keeps making shit worse.

“It’s a short joke,” he says into the silence. He swallows. Frantic. “I’m calling you short.”

Finally, after a pause that makes Ian want to eat his own fucking liver, there’s a staticky _chh_ and Mickey snorts. “Dickhead. I ain’t fuckin’ short.”

Ian blows out a relieved breath and awkwardly changes the subject to something completely unrelated to him unintentionally calling Mickey his tiny little boyfriend.

The conversation somehow gets on a middle school teacher they both had. Ian’s convinced he was gay and Mickey’s convinced he wasn’t, leading Ian to telling Mickey his gaydar sucks, which turns into another argument about various other Southside gays that has Ian rubbing his stubbly cheeks as he smiles and tries and probably fails to effect an annoyed tone of voice.

After a good five minutes of arguing, Mickey eventually gives up with a “Fuck you, Gallagher, and your wrong ass opinions.”

Ian climbs out of the window, the cool night air having given him chills, and drops down onto his bed. “What, can't take the heat, Milkovich?”

“This ain't even a fuckin' discussion. You're wrong.”

“Sure, bitch.”

“I'm done talking about this with you. You're just bein' a dick, and you know good and well that I'm right.”

“Milkovich can't _handle_ the truth.”

“Gallagher can suck a dick.”

Ian snorts. “ _Yeah_ , he can!” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey mumbles, voice uncharacteristically soft in a way that gives Ian the entirely sudden and unexpected thought that he actually really wants to suck Mickey’s dick.

Shit.

He laughs because he can’t fucking not, stomach clenching.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey murmurs, and Ian can hear him drinking from a bottle of beer.

Goddammit, Ian likes him so much. 

It occurs to him that there’s absolutely nothing stopping him from telling him that. He could do it. Could take a deep breath and, voice loud and clear, fuck all the kestrel shit, fuck the fact that Mickey’s paying him money, say, _I kinda wanna try to date you, if you’re cool with it_ or _It’s weird as shit for me to say ‘cause I’m not a pussy, but you’re fuckin’ cute and I wanna kiss your dumb eyebrow._

It feels like the Call of the Void, the split-second thought of _lemme jump into moving traffic_ or _lemme just stab this annoying motherfucker with a steak knife real quick_. Ian can’t ask it in the same way he can’t mow down unsuspecting pedestrians on the sidewalk with the ambulance at work.

Therefore, what he says instead is 

“So, you're gonna FaceTime with me?”

There’s a sigh from Mickey followed by a brief pause. “Said I would.”

“Cool.”

Ian scratches his brow and listens to Mickey breathe.

There’s an awkward silence then, one that gives Ian the chance to worry. He gets up and moves into the kitchen to get his Coke and try to keep his mind clear.

“But only if you do it in women's underwear,” Mickey suddenly says, referencing his client’s panty fetish and breaking the silence in such a way that Ian snorts loudly. 

He stands in the middle of the kitchen, overhead lights feeling almost too bright, and runs his hand over his face thinking about all the stuff Mickey knows about him, all the things he’s told him about his dealings with his clients, all the ways in which he’s broken tons of kestrel rules and complicated shit with Mickey beyond all measure.

He grabs his Coke and takes a sip, figuring he might as well get even more unethical than he’s already been. “Did I tell you he had me cut a hole in them so I could stick my dick through? And like, he was tellin' me stuff to do with them, so by the end of the session, they were completely destroyed. I can fuckin' guarantee he's gonna want me to get another pair.”

“Go with blue this time.”

“Mm. Exactly what I was thinking. Combined with my hair, there was just too much red goin' on before.”

The two of them laugh, and things are happy and easy again. Ian sips at his Coke and lets his mind wander onto thoughts of their burgeoning relationship.

They’re going to _FaceTime_. Shit.

Maybe one day they’re going to meet up.

Maybe one day Ian’ll tip up Mickey’s chin and kiss a smile onto that grumpily scowling mouth.

He’s so fucking screwed. He wonders if Mickey knows how screwed Ian is--wonders if he knows he’s crushing like a stupid seventh grader, wonders if he’s being obvious.

And somewhere, deep inside but creeping, niggling, is the worry that Ian’s taking advantage of Mickey’s friendship.

Mickey is paying $65.99 a week for what is meant to include virtual sex acts but what has turned into arguments about 90s action stars and Ian complaining about his other clients and quickly becoming embarrassingly besotted.

Part of him wonders if Mickey ever looks at his bank statement at the end of the month and feels like he isn’t getting his money’s worth. He wonders if their friendship has made him nervous about asking for shit he wants and should have as the client to an escort. He wonders if his own complaints have made Mickey feel like Ian hates what he does.

He takes a deep breath and, energy drained from all his goddamned overthinking, says, “Hey, Mickey?”

“Yeah.” Mickey’s voice is soft.

“You know you can like, ask me for stuff, right?”

“The fuck you talkin' about?”

Ian leans over the kitchen counter, nervous tingles crawling up his spine. “I know I complain to you about my clients, but it's mostly just for fun, or I'm venting about some of the assholes.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “But I don't want you to think that I'm not into doin' stuff or that I wouldn't wanna like, do it for you or whatever if you wanted.”

There’s a loud, staticky exhale from Mickey, and Ian pulls the neck of his T-shirt up over half his face, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He’s embarrassed, and it’s two-fold. For one, it’s the acknowledgment that Mickey’s a paying client--that they didn’t actually meet by happenstance and become buds who spend literal hours each day talking. For another, it’s the fact that Ian wants to drag his mouth over Mickey’s stomach and make him smile and tell him he’s beautiful, and the thought of Mickey taking advantage of the virtual sex acts that come along with the Gold Package makes Ian’s heart pound to the point that he’s idly afraid Mickey can hear it through the phone.

Shit.

And Ian knows he shouldn’t be this way. He knows that he’s made a terrible mistake--a whole fuckin’ slew of ‘em--by allowing his professional relationship with Mickey Milkovich to become what it is, this fucked up situation in which he’s supposed to be providing him sex services but is actually a perpetual millisecond away from falling in love with him.

He knows this, and yet he also knows as well as he knows anything that if Mickey agrees to take things to the next level “professionally,” Ian’s going to be thrilled. 

Ian’s going to take normal kestrel shit that he currently has seven other guys paying for, and he’s going to view it as the next romantic stage in his pursuance of Mickey Milkovich, and there’s nothing he can fucking do about it.

He feels the adrenaline begin to bubble under his skin the longer it takes Mickey to answer, knowing in his heart of hearts that the other man is anxious, is having to break down a few walls in order to agree to the push.

He bites his lip, and he wants to _smile_ when Mickey finally murmurs in a way that somehow sounds like he’s blushing, “M'not gonna ask you to wear frilly fuckin' lingerie.”

Here he goes again. Shit.

Ian huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I figured.”

And there’s something in Mickey’s voice that tells Ian he’s nervous.

“But, y'know,” he continues, wanting to be reassuring, wanting to simultaneously assure Mickey that it’s fine to want to get his money’s worth and also wanting to advance their relationship. It feels fucked up. His cheeks heat. 

“Like, no pressure or anything. I'm completely fine with exchanging shirtless pictures and seeing Jovi. I just. Just wanted to make sure there's not something that you like, _want_ , and you don't feel like you can ask 'cause I've been kind of a dick about my clients.”

Mickey’s quiet for a full minute--a full minute in which Ian has a chance to convince himself that he’s the worst kind of unethical bastard.

But when Mickey finally speaks, it all goes away and all Ian wants is to run a hand through his hair and press his lips to his forehead.

“Like what?” It’s the gentlest thing.

Ian smiles, suddenly so endeared that his heart gives a little kick. “Mm. I mean, do you want like, a menu?” 

“Dunno, man. Whatever you wanna do.”

Ian pushes away from the kitchen counter and moves into the living room to sit in the recliner. “Well. I dunno. I still don't really know what you're into. But okay.” 

His voice shakes when he speaks. 

“There's. I mean, there's masturbation stuff. I could like, do stuff and take pictures or like, video it, or...”

Ian has called clients “daddy.” He’s said some of the most objectively dirty phrases in the English language while jerking his cock over video chat. He feels more nervous right now, using relatively clinical terms to suggest possible avenues of exploration, than he did when he was pretending to be a _naughty boy_ for a client.

Lucky him, he rambles like a motherfucker when he’s nervous.

“If you have like, requests of stuff you want me to do or say. Or. How you want me to dress.” Ian blows out a breath. “Or I could like, send you dick pics. If the masturbation stuff's kind of a lot for now.”

 _For now_. Fuck. He’s obvious. He’s so stupidly, embarrassingly obvious.

“Can you fuckin' say something?” he murmurs, nervous laughter bubbling up inside his throat.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you can say something? Or yeah, you want something that I mentioned?”

“I guess you can, uh.” There’s a pause. Ian hears Mickey shuffling around. “The dick stuff. Like, the pictures.”

“Yeah?” Ian thinks his heart might explode. He thinks his stomach might eat itself.

“But like, nothin' crazy, man.”

“So just basically me. Naked.”

“I don't fuckin' know. Yeah. That's. Fine.”

Goddammit. Ian pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his face on them. This is the most awkward shit. How the hell is this so awkward?

He laughs and, deciding to use it to ease a bit of the tension, asks, “Why's this so fuckin' awkward? I literally do this every day.”

Mickey doesn't answer, which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Ian feels like he’s hanging on the edge of a cliff and Mickey’s just standing there, watching him and smoking.

“Anyway.” He laughs nervously, scrambling, grasping, fingers digging into the earth as he tries to hold on. “I will. Do that. I'm gonna send you a dick pic, okay?”

He’s going to send him a fucking _dick pic_. Jesus Christ. Mickey Milkovich is going to see that part of him.

“Okay,” Mickey agrees, voice soft.

Ian bites his lip. Sniffs. “Okay. I'm gonna hang up.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Bye.”

He face-palms, feels like a fucking idiot, and hangs up.

\---

For someone who somehow has no problem bringing himself to very visible completion while a stranger jacks it on the video call, he’s _uncharacteristically_ nervous when he climbs off the couch and heads into the bathroom.

He pulls off his shirt and tugs his navy boxers down about six inches, then stares at himself in the mirror, turning from side to side to figure out his best angle.

Mickey had requested _nothin' crazy, man_ , and Ian takes that to mean he doesn’t want anything too sexualized. 

He blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his pubes, smoothing them down a little. He’s getting fucking hairy, and he knows it’s probably normal, but it seems like in the last year, all his body hair’s gotten thicker and more copious. 

Ian considers giving himself a bit of a trim but ultimately decides against it. He’d make a mess and would probably give himself weird bald spots. 

Besides, Mickey’s waiting, and well, whatever. People are allowed to have pubic hair. None of his clients--with the exception of those that are way too into the whole hairless twink thing--have had any problems with it.

He grabs his phone and opens the camera, then pauses for a quick check of the head of his dick to make sure he doesn’t have any dried come or anything else still hanging around from where he’d jerked off that morning.

Once he’s given himself the all clear, he snaps a couple pictures, pulls his underwear back up, and sits down on the ledge of the bathtub to choose the best of the bunch.

Ian thinks about Mickey, and he thinks about _nothin' crazy, man_ , and he chooses the one that most looks like a naked dude who’s not actively trying to fuck but who also looks decently good. His dick’s just sort of out, hanging there as normal but not too embarrassingly limp looking.

He’s okay with it. He hopes Mickey likes it.

 _Shit_.

Mickey’s going to see his dick.

What if he like, _jerks off_ to it? What if Ian’s dick makes Mickey come tonight?

Ian runs his hand across the lower part of his face, breath shallow little puffs as he attaches the dick pic to his text thread with Mickey and sends it along with 😊 to sort of soften the thin thread of awkward that runs throughout this interaction.

Then he holds his breath.

When Mickey still hasn’t responded after three minutes, Ian bends over and hangs his head between his knees, cheeks heating up.

And shit, he shouldn’t be acting like this. After sending dick pics to his other clients, he quite literally couldn’t care less whether he receives a response at all, let alone a timely one.

But the more time passes, the faster Ian’s heart beats, the sweatier his palms get, and more he worries that he’s done something to fuck up his relationship with Mickey.

What if Mickey’s _grossed out_ by him? What if he sees his orange-ish pubes and realizes he’s not into gingers after all? What if he thinks the faint smattering of freckles on his dick are weird? What if his balls are too _dangly_ or something?

After seven minutes, Ian texts him because he doesn’t know what else to do.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** 🤨

\------------------------

It takes Mickey another four minutes to reply, giving Ian the perfect amount of time to pull his T-shirt back on and migrate to his bedroom, where he climbs back onto his window sill and lights another cigarette.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:23 PM):** 👍

\------------------------

Another cigarette that he immediately stubs out when he sees Mickey’s response.

He leans his head against the frame of the window and laughs, face going hot under the eyes and stomach filling with stupid butterflies.

The thumbs up is like, the dumbest, _cutest_ fucking thing. Ian imagines Mickey chewing his bottom lip as he searches through his emoji keyboard.

Shit.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:23 PM):** 😂😂

 **Mickey (8:24 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

He just…

He doesn’t even know.

Ian taps Mickey’s name at the top of the chat thread and calls him, shoulders shaking as he giggles like a motherfucker.

“ _What_?” Mickey asks in answer, and Ian can tell he’s smiling despite his trademark grumpy tone.

He just…

“ _Mickey._ ” Ian climbs out of his window and falls down on his bed, grabbing at his pillow to smother his laugh. He feels drunk--like the happiest, drunkest little bitch--all the nerves from a few minutes ago having immediately left his body the moment he heard the smile in Mickey’s voice.

And he knows Mickey can tell he’s into him. The way he’s just said his name leaves zero doubt if you know what you’re looking for.

Ian doesn’t know if he wants Mickey to know what he’s looking for.

“You fuckin' high right now?” Mickey asks, that smile still there. Fuck.

“No, it's just.” Ian manages to pause his laughter for the briefest of moments before snorting again. “It's just you.”

“The fuck's that even mean?” 

Mickey sounds so _smiley_. Ian wishes he were on the bed with him, warm and close and sweet.

He wants to see his _smile_. He wants to ask him

“What'd you think?”

Mickey is quiet for long enough that Ian feels the need to prompt him. “ _Mickey_.”

Ian swallows, little flutters of nerves beginning to sizzle up his spine. 

What if?

He clears his throat. “Was it like, too much? Not enough? Not sexy enough?” He blows out a breath and bites his bottom lip, working up a forced smile. “Give me somethin', bitch. I've got a fuckin' ego to maintain, here.”

Mickey laughs then, and Ian knows he’s said exactly the right thing.

“It was...” Mickey pauses, and Ian’s heart gives a kick. “I dunno, man. It was...good. You're. Big.”

Holy fuck. Ian abandons the laugh-smothering pillow and just loses himself to giggles that make him sound, look, and feel like a kid again.

He wants to play this shit cool--wants to be all suave and confident with a touch of arrogance in a way that makes him seem self-assured, but he can’t help it. He wants to play shit cool, but he also wants to lean into this good feeling as long and as much as he can.

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey says, voice soft and embarrassed-sounding--but as if by accident, as if it’s seeping in under the humor he wants to effect under a guise of also _playing shit cool_.

Ian thinks they’re both struggling with that.

And it’s made even worse by the request Mickey makes next. When Ian hears it, he thinks he might just float away out his open window.

“Send me a picture of your face.”

Shit. He just…

There’s _nothing_ else this could be, right? This is Mickey being soft. This is Mickey being sweet.

Ian likes him so much.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, voice going all gentle. “If you send me one of yours.”

\---

Ian tries to compose himself for the picture--tries to do something other than grin like a fucking idiot--but he can’t help it. He takes exactly one photo, and in it his face is red and his teeth are showing and his eyes look glassy from happiness. 

He sends it to Mickey. He wants Mickey to see it; in this moment, he wants him to know exactly what he makes him feel.

Ian receives a picture in response not quite a minute later. 

And at first, he’s disappointed. Mickey’s got that badass pose going, his middle finger up, his mouth twisted and brows wrinkled, not a smile in sight.

But after a second, Ian notices the icon in the top left identifying the image as a live photo. He holds his thumb on it and about loses himself to the grin that spreads across his face.

Mickey clearly had no idea he was accidentally taking a live photo. In it, he holds his signature pose for a moment, but then--right at the tail end of the segment--he relaxes out of it and smiles, eyes going all squinty, fucking _teeth_ showing with it.

It's the most beautiful thing Ian's ever seen.

He plays it over and over and over again, heart hammering away with the rhythm of a drumline. 

He purses his lips and slowly releases a breath.

\------------------------  
**Ian (8:42 PM):** You sent a live photo. Did you know?

\------------------------

It takes a couple minutes for Mickey to reply, and Ian smiles while he waits, imagining him clicking over to the photo and having a mini-meltdown over his goof.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** Whatever, man

\------------------------

And y’know what? _Whatever, man_ is right.

Ian switches over to the emoji keyboard and sends along something he’s wanted to send for weeks.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** 😍

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply to that, but Ian still chalks it up as a win.

\---  
\---

After that night, Ian’s under the impression that Mickey _might_ like him a little in the same way that Ian likes him.

He at least is very decidedly not against Ian sending him nudes, and the heart-eyes emoji didn’t deter him from texting Ian like always.

Ian tries his best not to be pushy with the dick pics. He always asks Mickey if he wants them before he sends them, and though he takes one most times he finds himself naked in front of the bathroom mirror, he spaces them out, only sending three total over the next two weeks.

He always gets ridiculously nervous when _sending_ turns to _delivered_ , but Mickey always manages to find some way to make him smile.

After a post-shower nude, Mickey sends along

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:14 AM):** You shower???

\------------------------

Ian smiles and sends him a row of middle finger emojis.

After an impromptu shot in which Ian--on his way to bed--gets his burgundy boxers pulled down just enough and snaps a picture from the side, his dick filled out just a touch--maybe the tiniest bit of blood thrumming through because he’s got his hand on his lower belly and he’s thinking about jerking off--Mickey texts

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:59 PM):** 👍

 **Mickey (11:59 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian chuckles to himself as he climbs in bed, switches off the lamp, and pulls the covers up to his armpits.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:00 AM):** And the middle finger is for…?

 **Mickey (12:00 AM):** For bein you

 **Ian (12:00 AM):** Gee, thanks.

 **Ian (12:01 AM):** Makes me feel real good about myself.

 **Mickey (12:01 AM):** Don’t wanna stroke your ego

\------------------------

Ian, still thinking about jerking off, types in _So what do you wanna stroke instead?_ before snorting and deleting it, knowing it’s way too fucking much. Mickey’d probably throw his phone across the room.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:02 AM):** So the things you WOULD say if you didn’t care about stroking my ego would be compliments?

 **Mickey (12:02 AM):** See this is why I send you 🖕🖕🖕

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** Just checking. 😉

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** Thanks, I guess, for the absence of compliments.

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** That you totally would send if you didn’t mind me getting a big head.

 **Ian (12:04 AM):** 😎

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** You’re the worst. Go to sleep, you work tomorrow

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** Fine. 😏

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** Sucks to suck, though. You still managed to stroke my ego.

 **Mickey (12:06 AM):** You better be glad I’m not a fuckin axe murderer

 **Ian (12:06 AM):** Wow. 😍

\------------------------

The reception to the third nude Ian sends is a little different because he’s fairly certain Mickey jerks off after receiving it.

Okay. Maybe he just _thinks_ that. But in all fairness, Ian sends along a picture of him holding his cock in his hand like he’s about to masturbate, and he even gives it a good several slow strokes to plump it up a little so it’s not like holding a limp noodle.

His stomach twists when the message is marked _read_ , and he bites his lip, waiting for the dots to appear like they always do.

He’d texted with Mickey beforehand:

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:41 PM):** Dear Mickey: My penis. Would you like to see? Check yes or no. 

**Mickey (8:42 PM):** I can’t fuckin stand you, I’m checkin no

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** Sorry I asked. 😞

 **Mickey (8:43 PM):** Are you this annoying with everyone

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** Nope. Just you. 😎

 **Mickey (8:43 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** Is the middle finger still code for you not wanting to stroke my ego but you also wanting to give me compliments and you maybe wanting a dick pic?

 **Mickey (8:45 PM):** Whatever you wanna do

 **Ian (8:45 PM):** Damn. Love the enthusiasm.

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** Just send me your dick and shut up

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** 😂

\------------------------

When the clock ticks to nearly five after nine, Mickey having been silent for almost 20 minutes after the message is marked _read_ , Ian texts him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:04 PM):** Was that one okay?

\------------------------

He thinks Mickey just jerked off.

Maybe he forgot to reply. Maybe he’s grossed out. Maybe he’s in public and can’t respond right away.

But _maybe_ not. 

Ian slides his hand down to his dick and rubs himself over the front of his boxers. _Shit_. Mickey jerking off to a picture of his dick. He feels his face heat.

He just…

He just really hopes Mickey thinks he’s hot. He thinks he maybe does, and it makes his stomach clench.

And it makes him get both hands back on his phone and grin when Mickey replies to his message.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:05 PM):** Stop fishing for compliments bitch, you know it was.

 **Ian (9:05 PM):** 😲 How dare you accuse me of such things.

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** Uh huh

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** 😇

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** Well, when you send a guy a picture of a sensitive part of your anatomy, you hope he's at least into it.

 **Mickey (9:07 PM):** 🙄 5 out of 5 stars. Leave me alone.

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** 😏

\------------------------

Five out of five fucking stars. Mickey using ending punctuation.

Ian runs a hand over his face and, after taking a brief moment to build up the courage, types into the text box

_Dear Mickey: Dating me. Is that a thing you’d be into? Check yes or no._

And he’s a millisecond away from tapping the send button when Mickey sends him a picture of Jovi stretched out on a pillow like a king.

Heart hammering, Ian erases the message and sends a heart-eyes emoji instead.

\---  
\---

Since The Dick Pic, they’re freer with what Ian thinks is mutual flirtation.

Their calls are full of poking fun at each other, followed by soft laughter and little huffs and _hm_ s that carry behind them nothing but smiles.

Their texts are a little more blatant, are Ian pushing, pushing like he really just fucking likes to do--are him feeling the surge of energy and bravery.

But shit, to give credit where credit’s due, Mickey does a pretty good job of pushing things along, himself.

On Friday night, Ian texts Mickey a stupid post-jog picture of him with his running shorts pulled down to just above the start of his cock, his sweat-damp pubes peeking out over the waistband. He doesn’t actually mean it to be sexy, is actually hoping to make Mickey laugh, but there’s just enough of a personal flair to it that he hopes Mickey also feels the intimacy--that little tilt and near-tip over the edge of friendship.

You don’t really show your friends your pubes, do you, even if you are just joking around.

And he’s expecting a middle finger emoji or a snarky comment. He about loses his mind when Mickey responds with a picture of his own.

Shit. _Shit_.

Mickey’s shirtless, standing in front of a full-length mirror, and he’s got his own pair of black running shorts with a lime stripe down the sides pulled down _just a bit_ too much in clear mockery of Ian’s own photo.

Ian sucks on his bottom lip and zooms in on the picture, breath coming in harsh puffs out his nose as he drags over his pink nipples and his sweet stomach with the freckle and the _littlest_ sliver of hair just at the waistband of his shorts.

It’s a dark shadow, mostly, but Ian knows exactly what it is, and he knows that Mickey’s allowing Ian to see his pubes, and it may be dumb as shit, but it feels like some sort of acknowledgement that they’re yeah, okay, _maybe_ edging toward something more than friendship.

Something like _interest_ and _intent_.

Ian blows out a heavy breath and texts him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (6:13 PM):** 👍

 **Ian (6:13 PM):** 😉

\------------------------

Okay, Mickey. You’re up.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (6:15 PM):** Do you really wear your fuckin shorts like this

 **Ian (6:15 PM):** Only when I'm taking hot pictures for strange men I text.

 **Mickey (6:16 PM):** So like does your ego have its own zip code or what

 **Ian (6:17 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (6:18 PM):** Are you saying that my pictures aren't hot?

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply for two minutes, and Ian uses that time to think of a smooth recovery should things go south.

Luckily, he doesn’t need one, as Mickey’s so very obvious in the most Mickey of ways when he finally replies.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (6:20 PM):** Fuck you's what I'm saying

 **Ian (6:21 PM):** It's okay, Mickey.

 **Ian (6:21 PM):** I think your pictures are hot, too.

 **Mickey (6:21 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕

 **Ian (6:21 PM):** 😉

\------------------------

Middle fingers aren’t denial. 

Ian puts on the _Slippery When Wet_ album on Spotify and makes dinner for himself, and while he eats his grilled cheese with tomato soup and sips his beer, he thinks about one day loving a grumpy boy with FUCK U-UP on his knuckles.

\---  
\---

Mickey’s really fucking cute when he’s flirted with.

Ian’s under the impression that he hasn’t done much of it before, as it’s easy as shit to overwhelm him, to get him taking too-long pauses and reacting with a _fuck you_ or a row of middle finger emojis.

Instead of giving as good as he gets, Mickey’s more likely to make a little huffy sound over the phone or take multiple minutes to send something as small as _Shut the fuck up._

Ian’s heart hurts a little when he thinks about people not flirting with Mickey in the way he maybe wants it. Knowing the Southside, and knowing what kind of environment Mickey likely grew up in as a Milkovich, he thinks it’s completely possible that Mickey has never been on the receiving end of sweet shit from a guy.

Hard fucks in bathroom stalls of Boystown clubs? Sure. But unless he’s just naturally shy about romance, Ian doesn’t see any other reason why Mickey would get so seemingly embarrassed when given a simple compliment.

“Will you send me a picture of yourself?” Ian asks one night as he lies in bed in the dark, snuggled up in his comforter. His voice has gone soft with the late hour. 

Mickey _chh_ s, and there’s a staticky huff. “Why?”

“‘cause I want one.”

“ _Why_?”

Ian wraps his comforter more tightly around him. “You’ve seen my beautiful face today. I’ve seen Jovi’s beautiful face. Now I wanna see _your_ beautiful face.”

There’s a light snorting sound--a huffy little snuffle--and Ian smiles.

“What say you?”

“ _Chhh._ ”

“Hm? Huh, Mickey?” he pokes.

Ian knows Mickey’s blushing when he murmurs real low, “I dunno. Shut up.” 

“You gonna send it?”

“What’dya even wanna picture of? It’s fuckin’ midnight.”

“I just wanna see you.”

Mickey _chhh_ s again, and Ian’s heart soars. 

“Yes? No? You want me to fuck off?” he says lightheartedly, eyes twinkling in the darkness. “Want me to never talk to you again?”

Mickey makes a cute as shit grumbly sound as Ian continues to prod.

“Huh? You gonna cancel on me? Huh, Mickey?”

“Bitch, shut up.”

“What’dya say? Huh?”

“Fuck off.” Mickey’s voice is sweet and smiley, like he’s holding in a laugh.

They’re quiet for a minute, and Ian listens to him breathe--listens to the soft little staticky puffs in his ear.

“Fine,” Mickey finally says, and Ian _hmm_ s as he waits.

There’s a shuffling noise, followed by what sounds like the click of a lamp and Mickey swearing under his breath. Finally, Mickey says gruffly, “Alright, here, whatever.”

It’s a picture of him sitting up in bed, faded blue tank top with a stretched neck hanging off his shoulder like he’s the world’s most irritable model, his face scrunched and pink-cheeked and his eyebrows drawn together.

He’s adorable.

Ian doesn’t go so far as to tell him exactly that, but he makes a high-pitched humming sound that he hopes comes across as endeared and says, “You look like a baby who’s just woken up from his nap.”

“What the fuck.”

Ian laughs, feeling drunk. “What? I didn’t say you were an ugly baby. You might be a really cute one. You don’t know.”

“Gallagher.”

“Milkovich.”

Mickey’s so bad at supplying flirty comebacks. He just sort of huffs and seemingly shuffles around like he’s getting resettled in bed. Ian imagines him wrapping himself up in his own comforter and settling in like a little burrito with his phone. It’s cute as fuck. 

“Thanks for the picture.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t mention it.”

“Want one of me?”

“You already sent me like three.”

“ _Yeah_ , but do you want another one?”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t know if I can pull off the sleepy baby thing, but I’ll try.”

Mickey scoffs loud enough that there’s a burst of sound in Ian’s ear. “Spare me.”

“No sleepy baby? Huh. You waaaaant sexy shit?”

“Gallagher.”

“You waaaaant me to like, stand on my head or something?”

“I hate you.”

“Sure ya do. Gimme a sec.”

Ian takes a picture of himself without turning on the nightstand lamp, the flash jarringly bright in the dark of the room. 

The resulting photo’s ugly as fuck. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut and really, he’s nothing but a ghost white face with a puff of orange sticking out from beneath his green comforter. He sends it anyway, smirking.

“Don’t get too horny,” he warns once the photo goes through. He watches _delivered_ change to _read_.

“Won’t be a problem, man.”

“Really? I thought my pastiness might turn ya on a little.”

“You look like a baby coming out of a vagina.”

“Fuck.” Ian laughs loudly--so loudly that he can’t even hear Mickey joining in until he’s paused to take a breath and say, “You suck.”

“Fuckhead.”

“Asshole.”

“Carrot-top vampire motherfucker.”

“Hey! Mean.”

“ _Chh_.” 

Ian chuckles and texts him a row of middle finger emojis.

 _I like you so fucking much_ , he types, almost like a dare for himself, finger hovering over the send icon. 

He deletes it.

_I want to kiss your stupid face._

He deletes it.

_Date me._

He deletes it.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:19 AM):** Maybe I’m self-conscious about being a ginger. You don’t know.

 **Mickey (12:19 AM):** As you should be

\------------------------

“ _Mickey_!”

Mickey laughs like goddamn twinkling stars, and Ian thinks it’s his favorite sound in the world.

\---  
\---

He holds out on the FaceTime thing for as long as he can, if only because he doesn’t want Mickey to think he’s desperate.

Because he’s not. He’s _definitely_ not.

He just thinks about him at work and while he’s visiting Lip and while he’s at the supermarket buying his Cap’n Crunch.

It feels _dangerous_ , like he’s playing with fire, every moment given to thoughts of Mickey Milkovich fueling some great worry in his brain that nothing can ever last. He can never be happy. Shit lies in wait, settling there in a thin layer under his skin, prickling.

Sometimes he talks to Mickey and he worries what he’ll think when he finds out. He worries he won’t like him anymore when he learns what he’s hiding. When he learns he’s fucked up. 

He hates that the only thing that makes him feel better when anxiety consumes him is the thought of Mickey, warm like safety, smearing a kiss to his forehead. He’s seeking comfort in things he doesn’t yet have. Might never have.

That doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

Mickey makes him happy. He makes him want to live. He makes his heart pound--thump-thump--when they talk, and when he’s sweet and when he’s mean and when he laughs at him like Ian makes him happy, too.

Ian holds out on the FaceTime thing, but he can’t hold out forever.

They’re having a dumb conversation in which Ian’s asking Mickey to rate him on a scale of 1-10, and it’s light and full of banter, and it’s got Ian periodically typing and deleting, _FaceTime me, bitch_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:54 PM):** So on a scale from 1-10, how satisfied would you say you are with the app?

 **Mickey (7:55 PM):** App 5/10, my match 1/10

 **Ian (7:56 PM):** Oh, see, I should've explained. The scale is from unsatisfied to satisfied, not the other way around. So I'll put you down as a 10/10 for match satisfaction?

 **Mickey (7:56 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (7:57 PM):** Hell, 11/10? We're really going that high?

 **Mickey (7:57 PM):** I changed my mind. 0/10

 **Ian (7:58 PM):** Goddammit, Mickey. How many times do I have to explain to you the way the scale works?

 **Mickey (7:58 PM):** Fuck off

 **Mickey (7:59 PM):** Is this a real survey

 **Ian (7:59 PM):** Nah. Just wanted to talk to you.

 **Mickey (8:00 PM):** I stand by my rating though.

 **Ian (8:01 PM):** Come oooon, Mickey. 11/10? Really?

 **Ian (8:01 PM):** I mean, I like you a lot, too, but 11/10's a little excessive.

 **Ian (8:01 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (8:02 PM):** On a scale from 1-10 how annoying do you think you are?

 **Mickey (8:02 PM):** Just checking your self awareness

 **Ian (8:03 PM):** Your scale or my scale?

 **Mickey (8:03 PM):** Well that answers that question

\------------------------

Ian smiles, and he types and deletes, types and deletes, types and deletes

_Would you be okay to FaceTime?_

_Wanna FaceTime?_

_I’m still confused about your scale, man. You might need to explain it to me over FaceTime._

Mickey’s probably watching the dancing dots, thinking he’s crazy.

And you know what, fuck it. Let him. Let him think he’s lost his marbles and let him think he’s desperate and let him think Ian’s the most annoying motherfucker alive when he texts him

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:10 PM):** Knock knock, bitch. I'm about to make a bad dinner decision.

 **Ian (8:10 PM):** You good to FaceTime?

\------------------------

He isn’t actually about to make a bad dinner decision.

He honestly hasn’t even thought about eating yet.

He just wants to see Mickey Milkovich’s smile.

\---

It takes Mickey nearly four minutes to respond, and Ian worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he thinks about why.

It could be anything, really. It could be nerves and it could be annoyance and it could be Mickey trying to decide whether or not to back out.

Ian hopes it’s nerves but the happy kind--the kind that means Mickey cares enough to have his courage shaken.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** Yeah, I guess

\------------------------

Not the most enthusiastic response, but when is Mickey ever enthusiastic?

Maybe during sex.

Shit. 

Ian rubs his hands over his face and rushes to the bathroom mirror to make sure he doesn’t look like a total disaster.

He’s got on a baby blue henley and gray sweats. His stubble’s starting to come out, and his hair’s floppy and gone a little greasy from where he’d sweat after a workout earlier. He pushes it back off his forehead and frowns at the bit that flops back down.

Whatever. Mickey’s called him a baby coming out of a fuckin’ vagina. He can take any shit he throws at him.

“Okay, Milkovich,” he whispers to the mirror before exhaling heavily. “Okay.”

\---

He manages to work up enough nervous energy before he calls him that he feels like he’s going to buzz away. Belly doing somersaults, Ian shakes out his hands, trying to work some of the adrenaline out of his system.

He starts the FaceTime call.

Mickey answers after the third ring, and Ian feels like he might croak. He can’t even look at him properly, brain going a mile a minute.

“Guess who's two seconds away from a bowl of Cap'n Crunch?” he asks, trying to contain himself and his stupid fucking twelve-year-old crush nerves.

He spins around in the kitchen once, looking for something to do with his hands, and finally lands on the cabinets, which he opens and closes like he’s searching for something. Like he’s lost his mind. “And like, I don't actually know what my other options are 'cause I haven't been to Jewel in like three weeks, so.”

He breathes. Closes his eyes for a moment, pointing the camera toward his messy-ass cabinets.

Mickey’s quiet. Watching.

Ian purses his lips and releases a shaky breath, slowly walking the phone over to the counter and propping it up on a napkin holder.

His heart hammers as he looks down at Mickey, who’s cute as fuck, peering up at him like he’s so thoroughly unimpressed and therefore so completely full of shit. Ian smiles, eyes trailing over his twitching brows and his beautiful blue eyes and the faint upturn at the corner of his mouth.

Ian’s hit with the overwhelming desire to love him.

“Hey, Mickey,” he says, wishing he could reach out and run his index finger over his bottom lip.

Mickey raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath. “Gallagher.”

Ian stares at him, and Mickey stares back, and his chest feels like it’s expanding, like his heart is growing, surpassing the limits set by his chest cavity. Too large. Too fast. Too much.

“You're real,” he says. It’s all he can say.

Mickey snorts. “You think I wasn't?”

Ian thought a lot of things about Mickey Milkovich. Right now he thinks he wants to kiss him.

“Well,” he says, mouth spreading into a grin, “I considered the fact that you might be catfishing me for like, two seconds, but really, what catfish would spend so much time pretending to be a grumpy asshole?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too.”

They take a moment to smile at each other.

Mickey’s _smile_. Ian could live a thousand years and never see anything more beautiful.

\---

“So, show me what ya got,” Mickey says eventually, and Ian picks up his phone and carries Mickey around the kitchen, showing him everything in his messy fridge and cabinets.

And the more they talk, and the more snarky comments Mickey makes about Ian’s messiness and the absolute shit he has in his fridge and cabinets, the more Ian’s heart feels like it settles, his insides rearranging themselves to accommodate the space taken up in his chest by Mickey Milkovich.

“You're hopeless,” Mickey says when Ian’s floundering, huffing with feigned exasperation and tapping his cabinet doors shut. “Order a fuckin' pizza.”

Ian orders a fuckin’ pizza.

\---

He likes him so fucking much.

It’s a forty minute wait on the pizza. Ian props his phone back up on the napkin holder and tries not to lose himself too much in Mickey’s face.

It’s hard to help, though, Mickey’s brows so expressive, his mouth so much softer and smilier than he’d imagined. He’s the Mickey on the phone but even better, even sweeter.

Ian watches him talk and feels a little lost.

“What you starin’ at?” Mickey asks, voice gruff but eyes kind.

Ian huffs a laugh and shrugs. “It’s weird seeing you.”

“Fuck. Yeah. Weird seein’ your carrot ass.”

“Again with the ginger comments. Am I a joke to you, Mickey?”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“Do you want me to punch you?”

Mickey smirks, and Ian loves the hell out of it. “Try.”

“Come over and I will.”

“As if you could land one.”

“I was in ROTC. Did a brief stint in the Army. I’m agile as fuck.”

“Mmhm. Whatever, fuckhead.”

Ian sticks out his tongue obnoxiously and grabs up his phone. “Time for a tour, asshole.”

He carries Mickey around his apartment, showing him his bathroom, living room, and the laundry room that’s mostly a messy, box-filled all-purpose area because he doesn’t have a washer and dryer. 

He doesn’t _love_ his apartment, and not because it’s a fucking mess. It smells weird sometimes, and all the built-in appliances and fixtures are old and temperamental. He likes the hardwood floors, though they’re creaky, and he likes how one wall of his living room is unfinished brick, but overall, it costs way more than it’s worth. Ian just hasn’t found an excuse to move somewhere else.

The last room he shows off to Mickey is his bedroom. It’s the only room he really likes, if only because his large bed makes it appear smaller and cozier than it actually is, making him feel safe and snug on nights when he’s not feeling his best.

He pans his phone across the room, cheeks flaming up a little when his tripod comes into view. Ian uses it during his cam sessions, but he also uses it to take full-body shots of himself using a tiny bluetooth remote. It feels out of place with Mickey here--embarrassing somehow, like that fucking Fleshlight that’d accidentally gotten into a picture Ian once sent him.

Taking a deep breath and turning the camera back on his face, he smiles with feigned confidence and, after taking a moment to move his laptop out of the way, falls backward onto his bed.

He holds the phone up above his face and says wryly, “So this is where the magic happens.”

“Ah,” Mickey says with amusement in his voice. “Where you blow your load for eighty-year-olds, you mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Usually not on the bed, though. I have a futon mattress that I put on the floor.” Ian rolls his eyes. “Easier to clean. Less...weird, I guess.”

His bed’s all his. His bed’s safety. His bed’s comfort. His bed’s for sleep and late-night phone calls with Mickey.

“The drool stains on your pillow probably wouldn't be good for business, either,” Mickey says, smirking.

Ian wants to smack him. He feels himself grow hot under the eyes. “Fuck you,” he says, lifting his head and looking over at the impressive stain. He snorts. Whatever. He’s a drooler. 

“Nah,” he continues, trying to be nonchalant. “This bed's for real sex only.”

Ian’s heart stops when he looks at Mickey in that moment. Something creeps into those blue eyes of his--something soft and warm. Ian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and watches, breath coming in gentle pants out his nose, as pink begins to burn its way up Mickey’s cheeks from his neck.

God.

Ian wants to die. He wants his body to be consumed by flames. He wants to drag his mouth across Mickey Milkovich’s face and bite at his lips.

Mickey exhales in a little punch, his eyes wandering from Ian’s forehead to his chin. “So,” he breathes, making Ian’s skin tingle. “You got like a boyfr--”

And like something out of a fucking movie--the long-awaited love confession thwarted at the last second--there’s a goddamn knock at the door.

Ian wants to punch a hole in the wall.

He wants to run eight miles and scale the side of a building like Spiderman and he wants to launch himself off the roof, knowing he’ll fly.

“Pizza guy,” he says, climbing off the bed. “Let me like, get this shit and I'll call you back.”

Ian hangs up and takes a moment to pant like he’s just done all of the above. His heart is racing and his palms are wet because Mickey Milkovich just tried to ask him if he has a boyfriend.

\---

Several minutes later, he has next to no memory of accepting the pizza and paying the pizza guy. He sets his table on autopilot, brain full of bees and ears rushing with blood.

Mickey wants to know if he has a boyfriend.

For what reason could he possibly be asking that if not because he wants to see if Ian’s available? Do people ask shit like that just because? 

Maybe. Probably. Ian’s done it. Ian did it with _Mickey_ , in fact, toward the beginning of their relationship.

But do people ask shit like that when they’ve been openly flirting with each other for weeks?

He opens up the fridge and considers making a grab for a bottle of beer to calm his nerves, but no. Can’t. He doesn’t trust himself while loose.

He takes a bottle of Lemon-Lime Gatorade instead and sits down at his kitchen table. After propping up his phone on a weird little ceramic bear center-piece Franny had painted him for Christmas, he closes his eyes, breathes, _breathes_ , and calls Mickey back.

“Yo,” Mickey greets from where he’s apparently lying stretched out on his couch.

Ian wonders if he’s ever going to try asking the question again.

The first few minutes of FaceTime Call, Pt. 2 are awkward, Ian working his way through slice after slice of pizza while thinking about dating Mickey Milkovich and trying to maintain some semblance of full-mouthed conversation.

But once he’s on his third slice and Mickey’s lighting up a cigarette, things start to loosen up.

“You’re not going to be allowed to smoke around me pretty soon,” Ian says, munching on a cheesy crust.

Mickey raises an eyebrow and blows a stream of smoke like a sexy motherfucker in the direction of the phone camera. “Why?”

“I’m sorta wantin’ to quit. I dunno. I’ve been smoking since I was like, fourteen.”

“ _Pfft_. Amateur.”

Ian shrugs. “Y’know. Health and all that shit.”

“Who fuckin’ cares,” Mickey says, proving his point by taking a hard drag, the cigarette pinched between his index finger and thumb. “Ain’t got the best genes, anyway. Might as well live it up while we can.”

“Maybe, but I kinda wanna be alive to have grandkids and shit. I dunno.”

“Fuck that, man.”

Ian _hm_ s and grabs up another slice. 

Mickey’s watching him eat, and his eyes are soft despite his words. Ian wonders if he wants kids one day. If it’s something he’s ever even allowed himself to think about, growing up in a homophobic Southside family.

He thinks, despite having never met him in person, that Mickey might be a good dad. There’s a kindness to him beneath the tough exterior. A sweetness.

Ian finds himself smiling and only catches himself when Mickey raises his eyebrows at him.

“What?”

He shrugs and takes another bite of his pizza.

\---

Jovi makes his grand appearance as Ian’s nearing the end of his meal. He leaps up on Mickey’s chest, causing him to wince and then laugh, and Ian wants to invite him over and he wants to drag him into his bedroom and he wants to curl up under the covers with him and tell him he doesn’t have a boyfriend. Not right now. Not yet.

“I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity,” Ian says, nodding toward the cat curled up on Mickey’s chest. 

Mickey smirks. “Oh yeah? Meeting me?”

“Jovi, man. The cooler Milkovich.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get a sick-ass ear notch, come see me, and we’ll talk.”

Mickey holds up his middle finger, and Ian feels the corner of his mouth pull up in a smile.

\---

He wishes that he’d FaceTimed Mickey a long time ago. Wishes they’d been talking like this for weeks. 

Wishes, frankly, that they’d gotten to know each other when they were kids.

They talk about music, and Ian puts on DMX and raps because he wants Mickey to call him a dumbass, and he thinks about how he can convince Mickey to do this again, to do this all the time.

“We need to do this again,” he says when he’s done--when he’s somehow managed to eat an entire medium cheese pizza without puking. He stands from the table and starts to clear his trash. “Next time, though, you're eating, too. Gotta say it was a little awkward devouring approximately three thousand calories while you stroked your cat like a supervillain.”

He takes the empty box, napkins, and paper plate to the trash, but he’s close enough to his phone to hear Mickey grumble, “Don't say _stroked your cat_.”

Ian laughs. He likes him so much. He likes him and he wants to FaceTime him again and he wants to be his boyfriend, really. That’s it. That’s all.

He breaks down the pizza box and crams it in the trashcan, mouth working silently as he goes over how he might broach letting Mickey know he’s single and looking.

How do you like, _approach_ that subject without being too obvious? Should he _care_ about being obvious?

Mickey’d tried to ask if he had a boyfriend, after all. Can Ian not just start the conversation with, _Hey. So I never got to answer the question you asked me earlier._

Is that not perfectly acceptable?

He takes a deep breath and starts to make his way back to the table and Mickey, who’s apparently quietly waiting on him, when his work phone starts to vibrate against Franny’s little ceramic bear.

Fuck. No, no, no.

He checks the time on his watch. 9:51. 

He has a cam session scheduled with Jon, a UIC professor, but it’s not until 10:30.

Cheeks coloring with disappointment, Ian takes his phone from where it’s propped and, swiping away from the face he could stare at for hours, he opens up his messages.

\------------------------

 **Jon (9:51 PM):** Greetings, Ian. Hope you’re well! Just wanted to send along a little request for tonight if you’re up to it. Do you mind painting flames on your stomach in our school colors? I’d like to see you get a little dirty this evening. 😈

 **Ian (9:52 PM):** Sure! What are the colors?

 **Jon (9:52 PM):** You’re a doll. Indigo and red. 🔥🔥🔥 

**Ian (9:52 PM):** I’m not an artist, but I’ll try my best! 😀

 **Jon (9:53 PM):** That’s my boy. xoxo

\------------------------

Knowing FaceTime’s paused, Ian closes his eyes and lets the disappointment wash over him.

“Fuck,” he says, swiping back over to Mickey. “I gotta go.”

Mickey’s brow crinkles for just a brief moment, then smooths out like it never happened. “Client?”

Ian nods. “He's scheduled for ten-thirty, but he's got some...special requests, so I probably need to get ready.”

“Got it. Probably shouldn't have eaten that whole pizza, then.”

“Mm.” Ian tries to laugh, but it’s flat. He takes a drink of his Gatorade. “Probably not, but. Whatever.”

There’s an unbearably awkward moment in which he and Mickey just watch each other, eyes meeting, lips moving like they want to say something. Ian wants to tell Mickey to wait on him. He’ll be back. He can FaceTime him all night if Mickey’ll let him.

“Alright. Go do your...thing,” Mickey says, voice soft.

Ian sniffs. Taps the fingers of his left hand against his belly. “Thanks again. This was fun.”

Mickey nods and, after removing the cap, takes a long drink from a bottle of Old Style. “See ya.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

Ian hangs up, and for the longest time, he just stands there. He sucks his lips into his mouth and thinks about Jon and thinks about jerking off for him and thinks about Mickey and his beautiful smile and how he’s achingly sweet.

Ian thinks about how he’s done-for. 

\---  
\---

Out of all of Ian’s non-Milkovich clients, Jon’s one of the most innocuous. He talks a little tough sometimes, calling Ian a _dirty boy_ and leaning into an intense and probably disturbing--considering his job--kink he has for college boys, but in the midst of the actual session, he’s pretty mild.

He has Ian jerk off while wearing the UIC sweatshirt he’d mailed to his kestrel PO box, the top bunched up under his armpits to reveal crudely drawn flames on his stomach.

When he comes on himself, Jon asks him to rub it in, smearing the body paint and making a fucking mess of himself.

Could be worse, though. He’s not Ken. 

After the session, Ian throws the futon mattress cover and the sweatshirt in his laundry bag and grabs a quick shower.

He’s tired, and he feels weird, the shift from Mickey to kestrel work uncommonly jarring for some reason. And it’s ironic, he thinks, as he takes his meds and then crawls in bed, stretching out naked under the cool sheets. Mickey _is_ kestrel work, after all.

It’s not even yet midnight, but Ian dozes, thinking of blushing cheeks and a sweet smile around a gruff _Fuck you_.

His work phone--which he now keeps on his nightstand along with his personal--chimes loudly with a kestrel alert at some point not too long after he’d begun to drift. Ian groans as he’s pulled from his sleep-wake limbo. 

Blindly, he grabs for it and sees a push notification, alerting him that Jon had tipped him fifteen bucks.

And he’s just about to put the phone back on his nightstand when he notices the red 1 hovering over the iMessage icon.

Curious, Ian taps it and smiles when he sees it’s a message from Mickey, sent twenty minutes prior.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:51 PM):** Everything go ok?

\------------------------

His heart kicks when he considers the fact that Mickey’s checking in on him. Butterflies swarm his belly, and suddenly he’s wide awake. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to text Mickey all night.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** All good. 👍

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** Thanks for asking.

 **Mickey (12:13 AM):** Yep

\------------------------

Ian taps his fingers against the sides of his phone case and thinks about what he wants to say.

 _I want to take you to dinner_.

_I want to tell you secrets._

_I want to kiss that freckle on your belly._

What he says is

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:19 AM):** I wasn't just fucking around earlier. We should FaceTime again soon.

 **Mickey (12:20 AM):** Yeah

\------------------------

Ian takes a deep breath, and he closes his eyes for a moment before typing

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:21 AM):** I like seeing your face when I talk to you.

\------------------------

He’s shocked when Mickey replies right away.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:21 AM):** Yeah yeah

 **Ian (12:22 AM):** You blush a lot more than I thought you would.

 **Mickey (12:23 AM):** Fuck off. Go to sleep

 **Ian (12:23 AM):** You smile more.

 **Mickey (12:23 AM):** Bye

\------------------------

_You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful._

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:24 AM):** You don't have permission to leave, bitch. I'm not done talking to you.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t respond for a few minutes, and Ian smiles in the dark thinking about this frustrating man he wants to smack and kiss.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:26 AM):** Mickey.

\------------------------

He takes a deep breath. Wonders if he should…

Why not. 

Why not?

Mickey’d been the one to bring it up. Mickey’d been curious. Ian wants him to know this one fact more than anything.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:27 AM):** I have one last thing to say, and then I'll let you leave.

 **Ian (12:27 AM):** But you gotta respond before I say it.

\------------------------

He purses his lips while he waits for Mickey to respond.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:29 AM):** What

 **Ian (12:29 AM):** Hey.

\------------------------

_Hey. I like you._

_Hey. I have a dumb fucking crush._

_Hey. I think I might be falling in love with you._

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:31 AM):** I don't, by the way.

 **Mickey (12:32 AM):** ???

 **Ian (12:32 AM):** Have a boyfriend.

 **Ian (12:33 AM):** You were asking me before the pizza guy came.

 **Mickey (12:34 AM):** Congratulations?

\------------------------

Ian snorts. Runs his hand across his face.

Shit, Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:35 AM):** 😂😂

 **Ian (12:35 AM):** Night, Mick.

 **Mickey (12:36 AM):** Night.

\------------------------

Ian Gallagher knows he’s a bit of a ticking time bomb. He knows that good things don’t last forever. Not to him. Not really. Not with his brain. Not with his genes.

But he knows that Mickey Milkovich makes him happy, and he makes him feel good about himself. 

He makes him smile. He makes him _want_. He makes him brave. 

So bring it the fuck on, universe. Do your worst.

If Ian’s a ticking time bomb, and if the result of falling in love with Mickey is detonation, 

let 

him

fucking

explode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 5  
> -The Remi Wolf song wasn't actually released until recently, so Ian technically wouldn't have been able to hear it. But I was listening to it the other day and that line just makes me laugh and think of Mickey as a tiny little boyfriend. Also, Remi Wolf is great. 
> 
> -There's a hint in here about a scene I fully intend to write at some point. It'll probably be in one of the vignettes in the "Love in Five Variations" chapter. 😏
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! ♥️♥️♥️
> 
> Love,
> 
> Gray


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it feels to fall. ♥️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: In which Ian Gallagher lets love happen.
> 
> Wooo. Thank you for your patience with this one. I talked a little bit on Tumblr about how this was my least favorite chapter to write in both LRPD and EAY. There are a lot of reasons for it, but I've decided that--at least for EAY--it's not so much that I didn't enjoy writing it but that it was emotionally draining to write. There are elements of this that, though I don't have bipolar, hit me a little too hard with my own personal mental health diagnoses. But I'm happy with the final result, and I actually think it might be my favorite chapter so far in its (very long) final form. I hope you enjoy.
> 
>  **Warnings for Chapter Six:** depiction of bipolar disorder and, specifically, an episode of hypomania and discussion of therapy, medication, and medication side-effects

**Alden (7:16 PM):** hey its alden

 **Ian (7:16 PM):** Hi Alden! How are you doing tonight?

 **Alden (7:16 PM):** ok... wanted to schedule something

 **Alden (7:16 PM):** tomrrw?

 **Ian (7:17 PM):** Sure! Typically you would schedule an appointment using the scheduler in the top center of the kestrel app, but if you want me to help with it this time, I can. What time were you thinking? I work 7PM - 11PM.

 **Alden (7:17 PM):** yeah thanks

 **Alden (7:17 PM):** 7:30 tomrrow

 **Ian (7:18 PM):** Great! Sessions are 30 minutes each, non-negotiable. Should I put you down for 7:30-8:00PM on Wednesday?

 **Alden (7:18 PM):** yeah thats fine

 **Ian (7:19 PM):** Perfect. Can you tell me what your expectations will be for our session? What kinds of things you’re into doing?

 **Alden (7:19 PM):** i like ass stuff

 **Ian (7:19 PM):** Okay, cool. Can I ask what type?

 **Alden (7:20 PM):** puttin stuff up it ?

 **Ian (7:20 PM):** Any preferences? Please keep in mind that I don’t do insertion play with anything except for body-safe toys of reasonable size, no larger than 1 human penis.

 **Alden (7:21 PM):** yeah man thats cool, i just want you to watch me stick things in my tight hungry asshole 😈😈

 **Ian (7:21 PM):** Oh! Okay, sure. I’d be happy to watch. Should I dress any particular way, or do you not have a preference?

 **Alden (7:21 PM):** i just want you to watch

 **Ian (7:21 PM):** Okay. No problem.

 **Ian (7:24 PM):** Got you scheduled. See you then, Alden.

\------------------------

He’s a young guy like Mickey. Ian’d been surprised when he’d checked his kestrel client page and saw him in there, waiting for approval--a 24-year-old with Swoops for _beer, nightlife, swimming, travel, models, sports,_ and _cooking_.

Young clients are rare enough for Ian that Alden felt both like a breath of fresh air and yet somehow _wrong_ , like Mickey’s the only age-appropriate guy Ian’s allowed to talk to on the app. Secretly, he’d worried a bit that Alden was going to be demanding or clingy or that Ian was going to have to spend quality work hours--hours he could be talking to Mickey--texting with him or video chatting with him or doing any number of millennial things he only occasionally had to do with his older clients.

That Alden’s into insertion freaked Ian out at first. 

He’s _okay_ with ass stuff sometimes, depending on the context and depending on his comfort with the client, but it makes him more uncomfortable than he thinks it probably should, given his line of work, to use toys on himself over video chat. 

He rarely minds getting his dick out or jerking off for numerous drooling old guys, but fucking himself with a dildo--something he’s _only_ done in the context of kestrel--feels private and embarrassing and always kicks his heart rate up with nerves. 

To say he’s relieved to learn that Alden just wants Ian to watch him do his thing is an understatement.

Only it’s also really fucking fascinatingly weird. 

On Wednesday, Alden calmly and self-assuredly directs Ian to stay quiet and watch, and Ian sits, cross-legged like he’s participating in storytime at the public library. He stares, mouth slightly gaped, as the guy proceeds to work a full PlayStation controller up his asshole.

It’s a complete record-scratch moment, Ian having expected Alden to pull out a dildo or a string of anal beads. When he’d held up the controller, Ian had nodded, thinking Alden was simply showing him he was a gamer. Then the controller was brought closer and closer to his ass, and well. Though he’s seen that shit in kinky porn entirely out of curiosity, seeing it live is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

Ian grabs his phone immediately after the session, happy there’s zero cleanup involved since Alden hadn’t wanted him to do anything, and drops backward onto the futon mattress, holding his phone above him and pulling up his text thread with Mickey.

All he wants to do is tell him about it, is laugh about the experience with someone he knows will laugh with him. It’s unethical as fuck, Ian telling a client about another client--Ian _laughing_ about a client with another client--but he’s lost all sense of caring weeks ago. 

He thinks Mickey is sort of his best friend.

There’s Lip, of course, but he can’t talk to Lip about everything. Really, he doesn’t _want_ to talk to Lip about everything. 

Ian wants to tell Mickey every secret he’s ever known. He wants to tell him about things that make him happy and things that make him laugh. He wants to whisper into his neck in the middle of the night things that make him afraid and things that make him feel sick and nervous sometimes when he gets lost in his head.

He wants Mickey to wrap an arm around him and kiss his warm skin and tell him _it’s all okay, man. It’s all fuckin’ okay._

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:11 PM):** Yoooo.

\------------------------

He smiles as he types it, waiting for Mickey’s _Sup_ so he can launch into his story about Alden.

Mickey doesn’t answer.

Ian pulls up his shirt and idly pats at his belly with his palms, sucking his lips and making a slow squeaking sound with them as he waits.

Nothing. Huh.

Not that it’s unusual for Mickey not to answer immediately, but at 8PM, he and Ian are typically well on their way to a conversation-filled night.

He swipes open kestrel and works on some of his outstanding tasks for a while, sending a few messages and replying to a few emails.

When Mickey still hasn’t responded by 8:30, Ian texts him again.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:34 PM):** Good talk. 👍

\------------------------

He doesn’t _mean_ to be annoying, but frankly, once the time creeps closer to nine and Ian’s making himself a microwave single-serving lasagna, he has to admit that he’s a bit worried about him.

Maybe Mickey has a rich and varied social life. Maybe Mickey’s hanging out with friends. Shit, maybe Mickey’s on a fuckin’ date.

But Ian can’t think of a single time in the past month when Mickey’s failed to respond to his text after seven o’clock.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** You alive?

\------------------------

he texts, hoping Mickey doesn’t think he’s a gigantic weirdo for insisting on bugging him so much.

And he doesn’t think Mickey’s going to reply to that, but he’s taking the lasagna out of the microwave and peeling off the rest of the film on the little black tray when his phone _ding_ s.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:01 PM):** Hey

\------------------------

Ian breathes out a relieved breath, entirely aware that he needs someone to smack him for being such an annoying fuckin’ loser with a crush.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:02 PM):** Hey.

 **Ian (9:02 PM):** Ignore my crazy texts. Sorry.

 **Ian (9:03 PM):** Pretend I sent just the one.

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** Yeah sorry, my phone was on the charger

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** Sup

\------------------------

Ian grabs a fork from the silverware drawer and stirs at the liquidy meat sauce pooling around his lasagna. He considers jumping right into his story, but in an effort to not come across as a dumb, eager child, sets down his fork and texts

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:04 PM):** Just checking in. I bought groceries today.

 **Mickey (9:05 PM):** You didn't buy any more fuckin cereal did you

 **Ian (9:05 PM):** 2 for 1 on Cocoa Puffs, bitch. But I also got some bagged salad kits and some frozen entrees. Figured you'd be proud of me.

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** Congratulations on being an adult. Tell me where to send your medal

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** I can tell you where to stick it. 🖕

 **Mickey (9:07 PM):** Where, up your ass?

\------------------------

Ian laughs, leaning over the kitchen counter and holding his phone in both hands.

Shit. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:08 PM):** Kinky. 🤨

 **Mickey (9:08 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:09 PM):** On a weirdly related note, do you wanna know something funny?

 **Mickey (9:09 PM):** No

 **Ian (9:09 PM):** I hate you and I’m gonna tell you anyway. 🖕

 **Mickey (9:10 PM):** Your clients must fuckin love you

 **Ian (9:10 PM):** So much. 

**Mickey (9:10 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** Anyway, I have a new client.

 **Mickey (9:11 PM):** Good for you?

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** Great for me. He stuck an entire PlayStation controller up his ass.

 **Mickey (9:12 PM):** What the fuck

 **Ian (9:12 PM):** Not to mention a TV remote and part of a toy lightsaber. 😳

 **Ian (9:12 PM):** I don’t think I’m ever going to forget the controller, though.

 **Ian (9:13 PM):** It’s basically burned into my brain.

 **Mickey (9:13 PM):** Did you jerk off to it or whatever

 **Ian (9:13 PM):** Nope. 😎

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** There was like, nothing sexual done on my part. I was fully dressed, watching video of this dude stick a PlayStation controller up his asshole and thinking about ordering some Chinese food afterward.

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** It was great. He didn't even want me to say anything.

 **Mickey (9:16 PM):** Probably gonna be you next, man

\------------------------

Ian grins around his fork as he eats his lasagna and reads the reply.

Fuck, he loves talking to him.

It’s so much fun doing this, telling him shit and reading his grumpy, funny little replies.

Idly, he wonders if it’s unhealthy to like someone so much. Is it normal to want to talk to someone all the time? To feel such a burst of energy every time they text?

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:17 PM):** No, no, no. The client and I had that conversation beforehand. It's not my favorite, but I'm okay with insertion as long as it's body-safe toys, plugs, or dicks.

\------------------------

Too much? Maybe? Did Ian just inadvertently imply to Mickey that he tops? Is that okay to do with a guy that’s your client but whom you’re also sort of wanting to snuggle and touch and kiss in the warm space behind his ear?

He’s not expecting Mickey to say much in response, as he still--even after almost four months of talking--is sweetly shy about body and sex stuff when placed in a more personal context.

When it’s nearly three minutes later and there’s no response, in fact, Ian picks back up his phone and types

 _Anyway, it was funny. Thought you’d enjoy._ 😏

But before he has a chance to send it, Mickey replies with a question that makes Ian’s heart skip a beat.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:20 PM):** So like what are your rules for sex stuff? Do you have a list or does it depend on the client or what

\------------------------

He’s actively engaging him in more discussion about the sex he has. 

Why?

Is this simple curiosity, or is this something else?

Ian blows out a breath and types his response.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:23 PM):** Both? I have general rules, but then I might make up more for certain clients, depending on how comfortable or uncomfortable I am with them. We usually go over everything when they make their requests for what they want.

 **Ian (9:25 PM):** I told you my role play rules when we first started emailing, but for sex play, I have two sets. For video chat: nothing goes on or in my body unless it was specifically designed for that purpose, spit and semen are the only fluids/excretions I'll produce, and I don't do anything that could even potentially harm me. So no scratching or hitting myself, erotic asphyxiation, etc.

 **Ian (9:27 PM):** And then for in-person sessions, the same rules apply in addition to: no barebacking or unprotected oral, no semen ingestion, no biting, no marks, and no free extras.

\------------------------

He wonders, after he sends the message, if this’ll hold true for Mickey if they ever get to a point in which he’s purchased the Platinum Package. Ian knows it’s risky, and it makes his cheeks heat to consider, but he can’t help but think he’d want Mickey’s come in his mouth, would let him suck a bruise onto his skin, would fuck him all night for absolutely free.

He bites his lip and gets back to the topic at hand.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:28 PM):** Oh, and no degradation or humiliation. Fucking hate it.

 **Mickey (9:28 PM):** Do your clients actually try that shit when they're with you

 **Ian (9:29 PM):** Rarely, but I've had it happen. And I mean, it's a kink for some people, which is fine, and the client doesn't always mean it the way I take it, but I just can't pretend to be having fun when I'm being called horrible names.

 **Mickey (9:30 PM):** Do you like having sex with your clients?

\------------------------

Damn, Mickey’s ready with the questions.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:30 PM):** I like having sex. I mean, I'm not into my clients usually, so it's not the best, most inspired fucking there is.

 **Ian (9:30 PM):** And it's also all about being their fantasy, whatever that is for them, so sometimes it means I'm not getting to do my favorite things. But I get an orgasm out of it most of the time, and orgasms are pretty great. 👍

 **Mickey (9:31 PM):** I dunno, it's kinda weird to me, man. Like would you fuck The Crying Guy?

 **Mickey (9:31 PM):** And like all these saggy old dudes with droopy balls, like you put their dick in your mouth

 **Ian (9:32 PM):** The Crying Guy is the nicest client I've ever had.

 **Ian (9:32 PM):** It's really not that bad, Mickey. Anyway, most of the time, it's them sucking MY dick.

 **Mickey (9:33 PM):** How am I not your nicest client

 **Mickey (9:33 PM):** Don't tell me he's put up with more of your dumb shit than I have

\------------------------

God, he likes him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:34 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (9:34 PM):** Mickey, can you honestly and with a straight face tell me that you think you're nice?

 **Mickey (9:35 PM):** I dunno but you oughta be payin me for listening to you rap DMX, bitch

 **Ian (9:35 PM):** Oh, oh, you can fuck off, BITCH. That is pure talent.

 **Ian (9:36 PM):** And anyway, I just said he was the nicest. You're a bunch of other superlatives.

\------------------------

_Funniest. In a way I’m not sure is deliberate. Or maybe it’s deliberate but you just pretend it isn’t._

_Sweetest, sort of, when you want to be. Even when you think you aren’t. Even when you think you’re playing it off like a badass._

_Most beautiful. I want to kiss every inch of your face._

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:37 PM):** Grumpiest

 **Ian (9:37 PM):** Most infuriating

 **Ian (9:37 PM):** Most unreasonable

 **Ian (9:38 PM):** Prettiest cat

 **Ian (9:38 PM):** Most in love with (Slippery When Wet) Jon Bon Jovi 🎸

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Worst taste in 90s action stars

 **Mickey (9:39 PM):** Yeah yeah, fuck you 🖕

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Most likely to randomly stop responding to texts

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Most likely to forget to use punctuation at the end of a sentence

 **Mickey (9:40 PM):** You can stop, asshole

 **Ian (9:40 PM):** Most likely to call me an asshole when he is, in fact, the bigger asshole

 **Ian (9:40 PM):** Worst insta-stalker

 **Mickey (9:41 PM):** Fuck off, I'm leaving

 **Ian (9:41 PM):** Most likely to threaten to leave when really he just sits and watches me flounder because he's a dick

 **Mickey (9:41 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:42 PM):** Most likely to overuse the middle finger emoji

 **Mickey (9:42 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

 **Ian (9:42 PM):** Most Disney-inspired name

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Worst opinions on cereal

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Least respected opinion regarding my many musical talents

 **Mickey (9:44 PM):** Ey, you can fuck right off with your musical talents

 **Ian (9:44 PM):** Most ill-tempered

 **Mickey (9:44 PM):** I'll show you ill-tempered

\------------------------

Ian takes a breath.

And another.

And

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:44 PM):** Cutest

\------------------------

He feels the thrum of his heart in his chest, vibrating his skin. 

Shit. He just… He just can’t _not_ say it, and he finds that he so desperately wants Mickey to know he thinks he’s cute.

Even if he doesn’t take it in a romantic way. Even if he just mentally shrugs it off with a tiny blush like the ones spreading across his cheeks during their last FaceTime session. Ian wants him to know that someone out there wants to kiss his cheek.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:45 PM):** Okay, okay. I'm done. 😉

 **Mickey (9:45 PM):** Read back over that shit and tell me I'm not the nicest motherfucker in the world for not callin in a hit on your dumb ass

 **Ian (9:46 PM):** Bitch, have an orgasm and cry while telling me how beautiful I am, then we'll talk. 🚬😎

 **Mickey (9:46 PM):** Nah man, I think your ego's big enough

 **Ian (9:46 PM):** I rest my case.

\------------------------

He’s grumpy as hell, and Ian wouldn’t want him any other way.

He takes his empty lasagna tray to the trash, then heads into the living room to stretch out on the couch.

There are always lulls in their conversation, and it’s reached a point in their relationship where they just let them happen. They’ll do their own thing for a while without saying goodbye, and then one of them will always pick up the conversation again before the end of the night.

Tonight, it’s Mickey, who texts Ian again about an hour later, just after Ian’s taken his meds and washed his face and is about to settle in front of the TV with a store-bought container of cut pineapple chunks.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:51 PM):** Ok but like you fuck old dudes

\------------------------

Ian grins as he reads and rereads the text.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:51 PM):** Yeah? 😎

 **Mickey (10:52 PM):** Wrinkly old dudes with saggy balls and gray pubes

 **Mickey (10:52 PM):** Shriveled dicks and shit

 **Ian (10:53 PM):** You make it sound like I’m trolling for clients in a retirement home.

 **Mickey (10:53 PM):** Basically

 **Ian (10:53 PM):** 🖕 They’re old but they’re not like, 80.

 **Mickey (10:54 PM):** It’s gross, man

 **Ian (10:54 PM):** It feels mostly the same when you close your eyes? 😬

 **Mickey (10:54 PM):** Their limp dick

\------------------------

Ian _hmm_ s. He pops open the container of pineapple and, with his fingers, pinches one and shoves it in his mouth.

Chewing, considering, he types

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:55 PM):** I mostly top, so no. 😎

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t respond for long enough for Ian to put down his phone, pull up a show on Netflix, and eat a few more pineapple chunks.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:01 PM):** Whatever, it’s still weird

 **Ian (11:01 PM):** Maybe, but the friction’s fine. I’m not getting super involved in their bodies, y’know, just sticking it in and going at it for about 15 minutes. 😎

 **Mickey (11:02 PM):** Stop using that fuckin emoji

 **Mickey (11:02 PM):** You’re a giant ass nerd 🖕

 **Ian (11:03 PM):** What’d you say, Mick? 😎

 **Mickey (11:03 PM):** 👊

\------------------------

Ian bites his lip. Snickers.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:04 PM):** I refuse to fist before marriage. 😎

 **Mickey (11:05 PM):** Jesus christ, you fuckin suck

 **Ian (11:05 PM):** Okay. Stop talking to me then. 😎

 **Mickey (11:05 PM):** Gladly

 **Mickey (11:06 PM):** Goodnight you dumbass motherfucker

\------------------------

Shit. Ian puts his hand over his heart.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:06 PM):** Fine. Be that way.

 **Ian (11:06 PM):** 😎

 **Mickey (11:06 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕

\------------------------

Ian still calls Mickey at just after midnight, as he’s climbing in bed, and they talk until Mickey’s breath slows to a gentle little pant that Ian wants to feel against his skin.

He tosses and turns that night, thinking of his lips and his stubble and how he might smell in the notch of his collarbone.

\---  
\---

Ian doesn’t remember Monica being _normal_ , whatever that means.

Or maybe her version of normal was a tilt one way or a tilt the other, always reckless in her mania or buried under the covers and staring, unseeing, straight ahead.

Even during times when Monica would seem like the perfect mom--when she would dote on her kids and buy them gifts and pull Ian along to gay clubs when he was underage, cooing about how she wanted him to be exactly who he was, exactly as he was supposed to be--there was always something off about her, always something _too much_ to the way she acted. Too extreme. Too emotional. Too energetic and caring but just on the edge of manipulative, like she wanted you to love her so damn much her months of absence didn’t mean a thing.

He doesn’t remember her normal, and therefore, on days when Ian worries, he convinces himself that he doesn’t remember his own normal, either.

It isn’t true. He knows as well as he knows anything that he’s managing his bipolar well. He’s taking his meds religiously, he’s mostly staying away from alcohol, and he’s taking pains to ensure that his schedule is at least remotely reasonable, occasional extra and switched shifts notwithstanding. 

But he can’t help but stress over the late nights he’s been having with seemingly no exhausted consequences the next day. Can’t help but worry over the bubble of excitement in his chest, the little sizzle he feels just beneath his skin, like his muscles are itchy, like he needs to run out the door to his apartment building and soar through the streets to expel some of his energy.

He feels like his feet need to move at all times--tapping, bouncing when he’s on the couch, shifting and shuffling when he’s at work, doing a check of the rig.

Ian suddenly can’t remember what he’s normally like when he notices himself idly walking circles around the break room at work while texting Mickey. When he catches himself thinking about Mickey so much that he can’t concentrate on his regular tasks, that he messes shit up, miscounts, makes stupid assumptions he knows better than to make regarding minor details of his job. Who’s on what task. Why their regular shipment of disposable bag valve masks needs to be doubled, maybe tripled, just in case. Who the fuck knows what could happen.

He finds himself spending a lot of time circling back to fix something he’s done without thinking, his brain full of bees and Mickey.

When his mania hits him with its worst, Ian usually doesn’t notice, too high on feeling like his life’s finally clicking into place--twenty-plus years and he’s suddenly figured it all out.

When it’s a slow crawl, it’s a paranoid, stressful assessment of every single thing he’s feeling, every single shift, every hasty move, every little squeeze in his chest like he might want to cry a little if he _doesn’t figure this out_.

Ian sits at his kitchen table after a week of this and presses his eyes to his forearm. He knows. He knows he knows he knows. He knows like he’s known before, like he knew the morning he woke up and threw his phone against the wall.

He still has the crack in his phone screen from the impact.

Ian doesn’t remember what he feels like when he’s stable, and now every little thing he does--completely normal or not--feels wrong.

 _Ian, you’re gonna feel a little wired when you have a crush_ , Mara had told him at their last session. _That’s normal. But what you have to determine is whether that butterflies and energy feeling is a reaction or a state of being_.

Is he feeling giddy and excitable, somehow both careless and obsessive, because knowing that he has Mickey to talk to, to laugh with and to place like a child’s doll in a vision of his perfect future makes him feel like life is actually entirely wonderful?

Or is he spiraling into a pattern of behavior--a motor cranked and running at top-speed and humming along beneath his skin, bound to move faster and faster until he can no longer control its pace?

He knows he knows he knows. He feels it. 

And he fucking _hates_ it. 

The slow crawl is almost worse, he thinks, even if it isn’t as destructive.

When he slides into full-blown mania, his life feels like a movie, like he’s walkin’ on fuckin’ sunshine. Who gives a shit about anything?

When he’s conscious of it, it’s misery.

He goes running even though he knows it won’t help. He takes his meds like a good little patient and doesn’t touch his usual coffee and energy drinks, and he thinks _forty years, forty years_ , forty years of a regimen that at any moment can fail.

\---

Ian finds himself lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, wide fucking awake and wanting someone to touch him.

It’s sex, but it isn’t. He wouldn’t turn down sexual intimacy, but more than anything he simply wants a soft mouth against his jaw and the warmth and safety of a body along his side.

And he feels stupid for thinking it--so, so, so fucking stupid--but the whole time he’s there, alone in the dark, the clock ticking closer and closer to midnight, he’s looking at pictures of Mickey on his phone and wanting him to love him.

It’s one thing to want to love, to feel the ache in his chest when he thinks of Mickey, when he runs his eyes over the planes of his body in his most recent shirtless picture. 

To want to love feels like control.

To want someone to love him feels like splaying himself out naked, waiting for birds to come and peck at his vulnerable skin.

Ian scrolls to a picture of Mickey sent that morning.

He’s wearing a baby blue T-shirt with a gray sweatshirt-material vest overtop, and he’s holding his _Eat a bag of dicks_ mug and, for once, not pulling his wannabe-badass face for the picture. He’s got his eyebrows raised and is looking directly into the camera as if to say _I sent you a picture. Ya happy?_

Yes, as a matter of fact. Ian was happy to get it. 

It makes him slide a hand up under the front of his shirt and press against his upper belly to see it now. There’s a little ache in his chest and a little itch in his bones and a little bee in his brain, and all he wants is to climb out his window and run to him. 

He hopes Mickey likes him. His mind races with it--with hope and doubt and every emotion in-between.

Ian’s alone in the dark with his room-cool palm pressed against his warm skin, and he thinks about how much space Mickey occupies within him and how much he thinks his heart might grow soon, if he lets it, if he lets himself be consumed by Mickey Milkovich.

Mickey Milkovich who tolerates his annoying texts and maybe wants pictures of his dick sometimes and somehow, no matter how you twist it, turn it upside down looking for the flaw, _somehow_ cares enough about him to answer his midnight phone calls. To talk to him happily and seriously and listen to him discuss his day and his family and all the tiny details about his life that he doesn’t tell anyone else.

He _could_ tell other people. He could talk to Lip about the new trainee with the attitude problem and the small, random funny thing that happened when he was shopping for groceries.

But Lip’s got Fred, and he’s got Tami, and he’s got friends outside his family. He’s got an AA sponsee and responsibilities.

Lip’s his brother, and he’ll be his forever best friend, his _first_ best friend, but there’s something different about talking to Mickey that makes Ian feel safe and at peace.

Mickey _chhh_ s at his silly stories, and he calls him a dumbass, but Ian knows he’s smiling when he says it.

Mickey’s just always _there_.

Ian sits up in bed and gathers the covers in his lap. He leans back against the headboard and pulls up his text thread with Mickey.

Biting his lip and making a decision, he texts

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:02 AM):** Hey

 **Mickey (12:03 AM):** Hey

 **Mickey (12:03 AM):** Sup

\------------------------

Ian runs a hand over the tired skin of his face. He sighs.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** Thank you.

 **Mickey (12:05 AM):** ?? For what

 **Ian (12:06 AM):** For talking to me. I don't think I've ever had a single person in my entire life outside of my family who just like, let me talk to them.

 **Mickey (12:07 AM):** You ok?

 **Ian (12:07 AM):** Yeah.

 **Ian (12:07 AM):** I know I'm being weird.

 **Ian (12:08 AM):** I was just thinking about stuff. Ignore me.

 **Mickey (12:08 AM):** Got it.

 **Ian (12:09 AM):** Anyway. Night, Mickey.

 **Mickey (12:09 AM):** Night.

\------------------------

He feels dumb, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the heat begins to rise from his chest, up his neck and to his cheeks.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:11 AM):** You sure you're ok?

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** I think I'm just exhausted. Working a lot.

\------------------------

Excuses, excuses. Ian knows what this is.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** To be honest, I'm a little wired right now. Mind's racing.

\------------------------

The confession feels like a shot, and he crumples a little, pulling his knees to his chest and dragging the blanket with him, tucking the hunter green comforter around his chest.

Mickey doesn’t answer, and he wonders if he’s somehow scared him away. Stepped too close to the edge. Gotten too personal.

But he eventually replies because he always does, because he’s Mickey and he’s good and Ian wishes he were here, a warm body to touch beneath the covers.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:14 AM):** So that bitch at work get fired yet?

\------------------------

Ian breathes out a sigh of relief--a long, slow stream that carries with it some of the buzzing.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:14 AM):** It’s on the horizon. Mindy’s a second away from telling her to clean out her locker.

 **Mickey (12:15 AM):** Thought all you EMTs were a buncha do gooders

 **Ian (12:15 AM):** Yeah, yeah. 🖕 But you can’t do as much good as you can if you’re not willing to work with the rest of the team.

 **Mickey (12:16 AM):** Cheeseball

 **Ian (12:16 AM):** Mickey.

 **Mickey (12:17 AM):** ?

\------------------------

Ian’s heart feels like it’s going to explode into butterflies.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:17 AM):** You called me a cheeseball. 😌

 **Mickey (12:18 AM):** Shut up

 **Ian (12:18 AM):** Sorry. 😎

 **Ian (12:18 AM):** I was expecting fuckhead or dumbass.

 **Mickey (12:19 AM):** Well for the record, you’re all three

 **Mickey (12:19 AM):** And you’re annoying

 **Ian (12:20 AM):** Gee, thanks.

 **Mickey (12:20 AM):** It’s whatever, man

 **Mickey (12:20 AM):** You can’t help the way you are

 **Ian (12:21 AM):** What’s your preferred method of death?

 **Ian (12:21 AM):** I figure I’ll let you choose since you’re still talking to me even though you clearly think I’m obnoxious as fuck.

 **Mickey (12:21 AM):** Surprise me 🖕

 **Ian (12:22 AM):** 😎

 **Mickey (12:22 AM):** Just don’t fuckin emoji me to death

 **Ian (12:22 AM):** 😏

 **Mickey (12:23 AM):** 🙄

 **Ian (12:23 AM):** Holy shit! You discovered a new emoji!

 **Ian (12:23 AM):** I feel like a proud dad. 😢

 **Mickey (12:24 AM):** Don’t make it weird, fuckhead

 **Ian (12:24 AM):** Fuckhead 😍

 **Ian (12:24 AM):** 😏

\------------------------

They talk for nearly two hours total from beginning to end, their silly conversation transitioning into a discussion of Ian’s day, which transitions into Mickey texting

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:19 AM):** Send me a picture of your dumb face you sleepy motherfucker

 **Ian (1:19 AM):** Why should I?

 **Mickey (1:19 AM):** Cuz I wanna make ginger jokes

 **Ian (1:20 AM):** Mean!

 **Mickey (1:20 AM):** Then don’t

 **Ian (1:21 AM):** 😎

\------------------------

Ian switches his lamp on and takes a simple picture of him smiling, leaned back against the headboard. He’s wearing a navy V-neck that shows a bit of his chest hair, and his eyes are puffy and red in the corners from lack of sleep.

He thinks he looks a bit of a mess, but he sends it to Mickey anyway, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

And he’s expecting the promised ginger joke or a dig at his messy hair. It isn’t what he gets.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:24 AM):** Hey

 **Ian (1:24 AM):** Hi 😊

 **Mickey (1:24 AM):** You actually ok

\------------------------

Ian blows out a breath and considers typing _no_. What would Mickey do if he did? What would he say?

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:25 AM):** I’m good. Thanks.

\------------------------

He snuggles into his comforter, sliding down the headboard so he’s resting on his pillows. Settling in.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:25 AM):** Ok. Well go to sleep cheeseball

 **Ian (1:26 AM):** 😏 

\------------------------

They text idly for another twenty minutes, the messages becoming less and less frequent the closer the clock ticks to two.

Ian feels heavy, like weights are strapped to his arms and legs. He scrolls through their last dozen messages, rereading every wry little thing Mickey’s said to him, his lips slowly upturning in a lazy smile.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:44 AM):** Do you really think I’m annoying?

\------------------------

he asks, the moment feeling right--warm and soft like his comforter.

Mickey doesn’t answer for several minutes, and Ian wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

In fact, he thinks that if he tries, if he burrows down and shuts his eyes, maybe his brain will stop and maybe he’ll drop off, as well.

And he almost does, his head jerking a bit as he’s pulled under, when he wakes to Mickey’s message.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:52 AM):** Wouldn’t talk to ya if I didn’t want to

\------------------------

It happens then, the heart thing. It bursts into those butterflies he’d known were swarming around inside.

Ian turns his face into his pillow and breathes out once, heavily. He turns back. Taps into the text box.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:53 AM):** Goodnight, Mickey. 😊

 **Mickey (1:53 AM):** Night fuckhead

 **Ian (1:53 AM):** 😍

 **Mickey (1:54 AM):** 🙄

\------------------------

Ian loves him a little, he thinks.

\---  
\---

It’s easy to play with fire.

Ian’s realized this over the past few years of getting used to living with his diagnosis. 

When his episodes are full-blown, he either doesn’t notice anything’s wrong with him or he’s too down to care that there is. When he gets how he is now, he’s anxious and avoidant, wanting to do anything but call Mara’s office, living with the hope that it’ll go away still, that it’s not too bad, that he’s just veering a little, not in any place from which he can’t step away.

At work that week, Ian’s more irritable than usual, but just slightly. He doesn’t want to snap but he feels like he could if he _did_ want to. Mostly his skin just feels electric. Just sizzles.

He paces while he texts, and he takes too many smoke breaks. 

He knows Mindy’s on to him the second her eyes meet his when he steps into her office on Wednesday to give her the inventory list.

“Go home,” she says, pointing a finger at him.

Ian swallows and moves closer to her desk. “What? Why?”

“Go home. Call Mara.”

Ian places the inventory list on her desk and sits down in a nearby chair. 

He knows he knows he knows. He doesn’t want to know.

He presses his elbows to his knees and bends over, burying his face in his hands for several long breaths.

“I’m not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his hands across his skin before dropping them to his lap and sitting up straight. 

Mindy opens her mouth to speak, and Ian cuts her off before she can. 

“I’m not. I’m just.” He sighs. “I’m just a little...wired.”

“Ian, honey, you took four smoke breaks in an hour.” She points toward the window, where he sees she has a full view of where he’d gone to smoke.

He doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together.

“Go home. Call Mara.” She pauses, sweeps her hair out of her eyes, and gives him a careful stare. “Are you manic?”

Ian blinks once, twice, three times and holds it before opening his eyes again. “Hypo. Probably.”

Mindy nods and leans over across her desk, patting his forearm with affection. “Call Mara. Take some time off. We love you, and we’ll be here when you get back.”

He swallows heavily and, after a pause, nods.

\---

Ian does call Mara, if only because he wants to stop feeling like this. His meds are out of balance, or he’s triggered this response because he’s involving himself too much in Mickey, is overworking his brain on him or leaning too much into the feelings he has, into things he should probably hold back, rein in, bury.

He heads into her office the next day, and after being called back, drops down in one of her oversized leather chairs and taps his fingers idly on the armrests.

When she comes in, she’s casually drinking coffee from a tumbler that reads _World’s Okayist Wife_ and is dressed in a navy, pin-striped pantsuit with her shiny wing-tips.

“Ian,” she greets, voice even, and has a seat in the chair across from him. “Calling in the troops?”

Ian sniffs and pulls in his arms, crossing them over his chest. He nods, and her eyes soften the more she watches his face.

He hates that she’s gentle with him. Mara’s hard. Mara’s no-nonsense. It’s what he likes about her.

Today, she’s full of understanding, and it makes his eyes sting.

He wants her to yell at him for being so stupid, so reckless with his emotions, but instead, she asks him about Mickey.

He’s only told her about him in passing, mentioning having a crush at his last appointment, casually expressing his concerns that he’s too happy about it.

“Are you seeing him?” Mara asks today, reaching to a little side table to take a purple pen from a coffee mug.

Ian shakes his head, nerves kicking up to an eleven, belly twisting. “No, we’re just talkin’. I’ve never even met him in person.”

“Did you meet him online?”

“Sorta, yeah.” He tilts his head from side to side, making an _ehhh_ face. “We’ve been talkin’ since January.”

“And would you say it’s romantic or primarily sexual?”

Ian snorts, and Mara looks up from where she’s writing, eyebrow raised.

“Um,” he starts, wiggling a bit in his seat. “Neither. Both.” He shuts his eyes for a second, shrugging. “I got no fuckin’ idea.”

A regular person, he’d think, would ask him what he means by that, but Mara nods once and jots something down in her notes. 

She asks him about his symptoms, and he tells her, voice coming in jerks. He feels embarrassed. Embarrassed to say, “My brain won’t shut off, mostly. Just thinkin’ about shit, and not sleeping. Hyped up, kinda.”

“Thinking about your guy?”

He blushes. He knows he does, and he hates more than anything the smile that tilts up the corner of Mara’s mouth.

She drops her notebook to her lap, clips the end of the pen to the top of the page, and leans over as if telling him a secret.

“Can I tell you something?”

He raises an eyebrow in question, loosening the cross of his arms at his chest.

“Falling in love happens to the best of us.” Mara leans back and picks up her tumbler from where it’s resting on the side-table, holding it out for him to read the side of it.

Ian purses his lips and leans back into the chair as if subconsciously trying to shrink down as much as possible.

“And you know what else?” she continues after taking a drink of her coffee.

Ian sniffs. Moves his arms to his sides and tucks his elbows tightly against him, squished against the sides of the chair. “What?”

“I’m so happy for you.”

Her voice is uncommonly gentle, and she smiles, and Ian wants to run out of the office and he wants to cry a little because this shit’s embarrassing, and it’s made him all weird, probably, his fixation on Mickey. 

He doesn’t have anyone to talk to about it. It feels strange to talk about it with his therapist.

“I’m like, obsessed with him,” he tries, and it sounds even worse out loud, his embarrassing, juvenile crush making him come across like a fuckin’ weirdo. Ian tilts his eyes toward the ceiling, then trails them back down in shame.

“What do you mean by that word?”

He shrugs. Sighs. “Think about him all the time. Look at his pictures. Wanna like, _do_ stuff with him and have him with me. I dunno.”

“Ian, that’s all very normal.”

He knows that. Maybe. Maybe he does. But

“Not for me, though.”

“Why?”

“‘cause it fucks me up. I can’t like, _do_ this shit.”

“Why?”

She’s pushing again. Ian blows a frustrated breath out his nose.

“I just like him so much, and I can’t control my shit. He makes me fuckin’ crazy.”

“Control your shit?”

“My emotions and shit. Not like, feeling too much, I guess.”

Mara raises an eyebrow as she jots something down quickly. And when she looks up, her mouth is soft. “Why can’t you feel too much? What’s wrong with that?”

“My bipolar’s triggered by strong emotions.” Ian gives Mara a leveling stare. He feels the heat creep up his neck. “Every time I’ve had a major episode, I was going through something. Monica’s death. Shit like that.” 

He sniffs, eyes moving away from Mara’s face. “And like, I know it’s not good for me to like Mickey so much, but I can’t stop.” Ian shrugs. “I’m fuckin’ myself up.”

“His name’s Mickey?”

Shit. “Yeah. And like, I _know_ I’m fuckin’ myself up, but I don’t even ca--”

“Is he from Chicago?” Mara interrupts, that same tiny smile on her lips.

She’s trying to pull him away from his rant. Ian wants to scream a little, but he doesn’t know what good it’d do.

After a moment of silence, he nods.

Mara sets down her notepad and pen on the side-table and scoots to the edge of her chair, closer.

“Ian,” she says, voice strong but calming. “You’re absolutely correct that bipolar episodes can be triggered by events and experiences inducing strong emotions. Bad things. Even good things.”

His face crumples at the last bit. He’d known it, but it hurts his heart to know--to hear from a full-fledged professional that it’s hard for him to experience good things. Things people always want to experience at least once in their life.

“Stress. Grief.” Mara leans over and taps him once on the knee. “Falling in love.”

He blows out a stream of breath, slow, slow.

“But,” she continues, straightening again. “I want you to listen to me not just as your psychiatrist but as someone who’s known you for over a year, and as someone who’s pushed away a lot of incredible stuff in their life for every reason in the book.” 

Ian nods. Crosses his arms back across his chest.

“Fall in love,” Mara says, shifting in her seat. “The happiness you feel when you’re falling is one of the best things in the world, and you should never apologize or try to shy away from that or feel guilty for feeling it because of your diagnosis.”

Ian licks his lips. “What if it makes me sick?” His voice is softer than he intended. “It’s made me fuckin’...hypomanic.”

“Ian, that’s why I’m here. We’re going to adjust your meds today. Get you balanced.” She picks back up her notepad and crosses her legs, wiggling her shiny, wing-tip-shoe’d foot. “The first time we met, we talked about living with your diagnosis. Not living _in spite_ of your diagnosis. Or living _avoiding_ your diagnosis. _With_. Right?”

He feels like he’s at school. Ian presses his lips together and nods.

“Are you falling in love with Mickey?” she asks, and it’s such a blunt question, point-blank-shot, that Ian sputters, his heart giving a rabbit-kick.

Mara smiles at his reaction. She raises an eyebrow.

He thinks his face would glow if the power cut, his skin emmenating a subtle pink hue even in darkness. Ian’s _burning_ beneath the eyes.

And he considers telling her to shut up, and he considers covering his face with his hands like a nervous little kid. But what he does is roll his eyes, lean back in the chair, and say, “He makes me happy.”

Seemingly satisfied, Mara reaches out with her notebook and smacks Ian on the leg. “I give you permission to think about him all the time.”

He chuckles then, low, and _shit_. He covers his face with his hands anyway.

“We’re gonna talk about keeping yourself in check, Ian. That means recognizing the first signs something’s off and getting down here so we can make some adjustments and get you back to looking at Mickey’s pictures. That _doesn’t_ mean sitting around worrying and feeling guilty about how good you feel, sweet boy.”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “I like you better when you’re mean to me.”

Mara scrunches up her face and nods at him. “I like _myself_ better when I’m mean to you.”

And well, fuck it. Ian grins, and Mara grins back, picking up her coffee tumbler and giving him an air toast.

\---  
\---

He fucking hates when his meds have been reconfigured, as it’s basically like signing up for a week of drowsiness and diarrhea until his body starts to get used to them. 

According to Mara, though, it’s just a _thing_.

“You’ve got _things_ ,” she’d said, typing away on her laptop, sending his prescription order to Walgreens. “And they’re just a part of your life. Everybody’s got things. I’ve got things. Stuff we deal with. Stuff we don’t _want_ to deal with--there’s no rhyme or reason for _why_ we have to deal with them--but we have to, so we do. And that doesn’t mean your life is or should be any less wonderful or fulfilling because of it.”

Ian had shrugged and given her a doubtful look, and to that, she’d tilted her head to the side, clicked _submit_ , and asked, standing, “Can I see a picture of him?”

Ian pulls up the picture he’d shown her--a cute one of Mickey holding Jovi against his chest with one arm, the cat giving him a nuzzle under his chin and Mickey looking soft and content, his eyes tilted downward and lips gently upturned. He stretches out on his back in bed and shifts his legs under the covers.

He feels like his brain’s gone to mush and like there’s cotton in his ears, but the drowsiness isn’t enough to prevent him from feeling the sizzle of warmth in his chest as he flips backward through more pictures, through shirtless chests and soft bellies and middle fingers confidently extended.

Ian thinks about holding him. About having him bundled up with him under the covers. About sucking a mark of love onto the skin of his neck and running a hand through his hair.

Love.

It’s the drowsiness, probably, but he feels warm with it. Soft and sleepy and ready to fall.

Will Mickey still like him once he knows about his bipolar? Will he consider loving him, maybe, one day?

Ian rolls in his comforter, wrapping himself up like a burrito, and thinks about a future with Mickey. He imagines mornings in bed and afternoons in the sun. He considers coming home to him after work, cooking with him, hugging and kissing and dancing with him in the kitchen. 

There’d be that, he thinks, and there’d also be the occasional three to six weeks of watching him curl up as small as possible on the couch, burying himself in a blanket. Standing around the apartment feeling like his belly’s full of lead. Staring at the ceiling in bed at night, limbs heavy, head pounding. 

It makes Ian tired to think about it, makes him squeeze his eyes shut and snuffle down into his comforter.

Maybe that would be a _thing_. Maybe Mickey would lie with him. Stroke his hair. Bring him food he’ll only nibble at and make sure he’s sticking with his meds.

Or maybe Mickey would leave.

Or maybe Mickey would never be with him in the first place.

Ian breathes heavily into the soft fabric of his comforter and feels the heat of his breath puff back into his face.

He dozes.

\---

He sleeps through most of the next day, only getting up to use the bathroom, make himself a grilled cheese, take his meds, and chug some Gatorade. 

By the third day, he’s watching Netflix from bed on his 42-inch flat-screen and missing Mickey.

Ian hasn’t texted him since the day of his appointment, having felt too much like he’d been knocked out starry-eyed by an anvil to so much as think about engaging in a joking texting session.

And well, he’d sort of hoped he’d wake from a nap at some point and find Mickey’d sent him a message, but that never happened, and it’s okay. It’s all okay. Mickey’s busy with life. Ian’s been busy sleeping.

On the TV, the _Stranger Things_ kids are playing Dungeons and Dragons. Ian watches the episode until he can’t concentrate anymore and then cuts it off, letting the darkness of his room envelop him in calm.

It’s moments like this, when he’s restless and sleepy-eyed, that Ian craves someone to talk to. He wants to tell Mickey all his feelings, and he wants to listen to his night-gentle voice and laugh at his jokes and complain about the fact that his meds have made him poop five times today.

He wants _desperately_ to tell him. He wants to tell him _everything_.

And it just really fucking sucks that the one person he wants to talk to about it is the one person he’s afraid won’t like him anymore because of it.

Ian’s going to tell him, and Mickey’s reaction’s going to kill him, he thinks, grabbing his phone from the nightstand and swiping over to their iMessage thread. It’ll smash his heart into a thousand pieces.

He knows this as if a learned fact, and it turns his mouth to cotton and his bones to Jell-O, but he still finds himself typing into the iMessage text box

_I have something to tell you._

He erases it.

_I’m bipolar. Do you know what that is?_

He erases it.

_I have a therapist because I’m bipolar. She told me I’m falling in love with you._

He definitely erases it.

Ian closes his eyes and pulls the comforter more tightly around him, moving until he’s just an arm, a fluff of hair, and a face sticking out the top of a burrito.

After a moment of consideration, he one-handed swipes over to FaceTime and stares at Mickey’s name on the call log. And maybe it’s impulsive, and maybe it’s stupid and naive.

But Ian wants Mickey’s comfort. He feels sick with how much, sick like he wants to cry. It’s the meds, he knows, but it doesn’t matter. It’s there all the same.

He stretches out his one free arm and switches on the nightstand lamp. Then, taking a deep breath, steeling himself, Ian picks back up his phone and taps Mickey’s name on the call log.

\---

It only rings a couple times before the FaceTime call connects, the audio before the video. Mickey murmurs, “Yeah?” and he sounds sleepy and sweet.

“Hey, Mickey.”

When the video finally connects, Ian wants to bury his face in Mickey’s neck.

He’s shirtless, and the room is almost too dim to see anything, but Ian can’t help but smile a little at the sleepy guy on the other end of the call, thinking he may have woken him up.

Mickey twists onto his back and holds his phone up above his face. “Hey. You okay?” he asks, and he sounds concerned in a way that makes Ian feel a little better about what he’s about to do. A little stronger. Braver.

He burrows a little further into his blanket as if for protection. “Hey.”

“What's up?”

“Just wanted to talk to you.” The words feel slow as they dance across his tongue.

They’re quiet for a minute, the two of them settling in to look at each other. It’s late at night, and they’re sleepy and warm. Ian watches Mickey huff little breaths out his nose, watches him lick his bottom lip and scan his eyes slowly across his face.

Mickey twists onto his side. “Somethin' goin' on with you?” he asks, voice gentle, gentle, and Ian frowns. Stares.

There’s no turning back if he does it. He still has an out. He can fake the flu. Tell Mickey he hasn’t been sleeping well. Hell, he can feign worry from a nightmare if he still wants the comfort.

Ian sucks on his lips and thinks about Mickey’s soft face. The gentle curve of his lips. The little wrinkles between his eyes. His beard shadow and bare chest.

He sighs, stretches, and tries to snap himself into some semblance of waking life. “Drowsy as fuck,” he murmurs. “Been sleeping most of the day.”

Mickey doesn't say anything. Ian steels himself.

“So, you know how I told you I had shit to tell you about at some point?”

“Yeah.” Soft.

“Well.” He waits. Contemplates the filling and emptying of his lungs as he breathes. Asks himself a million questions in the pause.

“I'm bipolar.” His heart hurts.

Mickey doesn’t say anything, and Ian feels that hurting heart speed until he feels it pounding in his ears, until it’s uncomfortable to be so tightly wound in the comforter. He twists around, getting his other arm free from the burrito.

“It's manic-depression,” he adds, watching Mickey’s perplexed face. “Severe mood swings. Basically my brain cycles between high-highs—feeling like I'm fuckin' on top of the world—to low-lows—like the worst unending depression—over and over again.”

Mickey bites his lip, but he nods, and he looks young and kind. Ian feels that sizzle beneath his skin.

“I was diagnosed when I was seventeen. Had like, a break. Psychosis. Paranoia.” 

Ian isn’t sure how he should take Mickey’s silence, but at least it isn’t hostile, and at least he’s still here, lips moving against each other as if he’s trying to work out how to speak.

He never does, but Ian sees the softening of his brow and the gentleness of his mouth with those moving lips, and it compels him to continue. To tell his story.

He tells him about the Gallagher family shit with DCFS calls and the group home and how he’d taken off and joined the army under his brother’s name. He tells him about trying to hotwire the plane, about his mom and the crack den and the underage dancing and fucking in Boystown. He tells him about stealing a car and driving eighty miles, only to be arrested and later admitted to the psych ward. He tells him about his official diagnosis and flushing his meds and how long it took for him to crawl back to the land of the living. How he’s still not sure whether he’s joined the world again.

Mickey asks questions when appropriate, voice even in a way that makes Ian feel understood.

“I've been on my meds every single day since then,” he says in closing, taking a deep breath. “They've been adjusted a million fucking times. But they help. I'm stable.”

Mickey gives him just the barest hint of a smile, and Ian’s heart gives a little squeeze.

“So is this...?” Mickey asks, waving his free hand to indicate Ian's current situation.

Ian shakes his head. “No. I mean. Even with the meds, I cycle. The meds help, and I haven't had a major episode in almost five years. But I still do go through periods of mania and depression. Just nothing unmanageable. The episodes are shorter. Less intense. And they fucking suck, but I see my therapist on a regular basis—more whenever I notice mood changes—and we get it sorted with my meds.”

Mickey doesn’t respond to that, just watches Ian, mouth soft and gently upturned.

“Anyway,” Ian scratches his stubbly jaw, hearing the _scritch-scritch_. “I've been a little weird lately, like beginnings of mania, maybe. I dunno, really. Just kinda feeling like my brain's racing. Not able to sleep. Hypomanic. Saw my therapist the other day, and she adjusted my meds.” He sniffs and sucks at his lips for a minute. “They make me drowsy for a while until I level out and my body gets used to the new configuration.”

“But like, what makes you get that way? Is it just like a pattern, like you're manic, then you get better, then you're depressed, or.” Mickey thumbs at his lip.

“Yes and no?” Ian shrugs. “I mean, that's basically how it works, but I have triggers, too, that can start up an episode. Like, big, emotional things. Stress.”

He feels a little like dying when he considers the worst part of it all, a humorless breathy laugh bubbling up out of his chest. “And what really fucking sucks about it is that even good shit can trigger it. Like normal, happy shit that other people get to experience in their lives with no problems.”

_Love, for instance. My therapist thinks I’m falling in love with you._

“Doesn't seem fair,” Mickey says, voice even. “So, like, was this triggered, or.”

Ian sighs. Fuck.

What if he told him? What if he said, _It was triggered by the intensity of my interest in you._

“Probably?” he breathes, stomach flipping. “I talked about some shit with my therapist, and she thinks... Yeah.”

Mickey nods, and Ian watches him scrape his top teeth up and down on his bottom lip. “So how long's this last?” he asks, voice soft and low.

This time? Not very long. Hypomania gets him lightly and briefly if he takes care of it. Ian considers telling Mickey about how, at his worst, he’d spent an entire month miserable and low, washed over by hopelessness.

“Should be back in action by the end of the week,” he says quietly. “It's just my meds right now, really. I'll sleep it off. But like, the cycling, it isn't constant. If I'm feeling a little hypomanic, that doesn't mean I'll be depressed next week. I'll go months and months sometimes between episodes. And some of it's seasonal, even.”

“But you're okay?”

Ian smiles, soft, and nods. “Yeah.”

“So when you said you haven't always done this kinda thing with a healthy mindset...” Mickey trails off, and Ian knows he’s referring to a few weeks ago when he’d asked him how he’d gotten into sex work.

Ian nods. Sniffs. “When I first started having symptoms—this like, intense mania—I was working at a club for a while. Like, underage. Dancing.” 

This hurts to admit. He knows he was a kid, and he knows he wasn’t stable. He knows Mickey’s a good person. But the thought of him hearing this, taking all this in about Ian--all the messy little bits of his life--makes Ian’s stomach cramp with nerves.

“I'd take drugs and shit and go home with men sometimes. Or to a hotel if they were married.” He laughs, humorlessly. “Sometimes I'd wake up not remembering a fuckin' thing.”

Sometimes he’d wake up alone on a hotel room bed with come drying on his dick and $300 on the nightstand, no used condom in sight.

“Shit,” Mickey murmurs, and Ian sniffs.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “But I'm better. I'm healthy. Can't fuckin' drink for shit.”

He snorts, reaching a hand up to rub over his face. Mickey watches him like he’s something interesting. Something worth watching, worth listening to. 

“That fuckin' voice memo I left you.”

“Yeah, that fuckin' voice memo.” Mickey laughs. “Trashed outta your fuckin' mind.”

Ian tells Mickey about how he’s an embarrassing lightweight, and Mickey smiles, and he chuckles, and he makes Ian feel somehow like everything’s going to be fine.

“Now you know my deep, dark secret,” Ian says, voice pitching up as he tries for levity. He grabs a Gatorade from off his nightstand and chugs half of it in one go, holding out his phone to film himself as he does.

“You wanna slow down, there?” Mickey teases. 

“Mm. Thirsty as fuck.” Ian takes another drink, then lies back down on his bed, head on the pillow and phone held just above his head.

He watches Mickey’s face, searching for clarity. Searching for disgust or disappointment or confusion.

His blue eyes are beautiful, even in the dim light of his bedroom, and they skim slowly up and down Ian’s face, mouth not a hard, frustrated press but soft, his plush lips parted just slightly enough that Ian can see the tips of his front teeth.

Ian wants to kiss him. He wonders if he’d let him.

“Mickey,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment, nervous and embarrassed. “Will you tell me something about you?”

A wash of anxiety comes over Mickey’s face for a moment, his soft, parted lips pressing and then opening as a breath puffs out.

Ian’s expecting him to tell him about his job or his family. He thinks he might scoff, even, or refuse to answer the question. Maybe he’ll turn it all back around on Ian, prodding for more information about his past.

But instead, after pulling together his brows for a moment, a sweet crinkle of bunched up skin appearing between his eyes, Mickey sighs and says with a voice whisper-soft, “I've never really done anything with a guy. Sex stuff, I mean.”

Ian’s heart pounds, the thump-thump from the anxious situation ramping up, up, up until it’s like the banging of drums, blood rushing so quickly in his ears that he can hardly hear Mickey’s heavy exhalation.

Shit, Mickey.

His lips pull up because they can’t _not_ , Mickey’s voice having been so sweet and nervous, like he was worried about admitting it, like he was concerned it would do anything to Ian but make him melt with affection.

Ian blows out a breath, and he watches the anxious little flicker in Mickey’s eyes. “Okay,” he says, knowing not to make a big deal out of it.

It’s _not_ a big deal. Not at all. Ian thinks it’s sweet, maybe, that Mickey’s never had sex with a man before. He imagines their first time together, imagines being the first person to ever be inside him.

It’s ultimately meaningless. Ian knows as much as anyone that sex is just sex. Having it or not having it doesn’t make you one thing or another.

But the thought of Mickey being hesitant about sex stuff this whole time because he’d never done it before, his nerves getting the best of him, makes Ian want to kiss him on the forehead.

Instead, he scratches at his jaw, trying to act casual, and asks, “Have you done things with girls?” 

Mickey rolls his lips into his mouth for a brief moment before answering with, “Yeah. Most things. Not in a while, though. And it wasn't, like...”

“You weren't into it.”

Mickey nods, then runs a hand over his face. “But it doesn't fuckin' mean anything, and it's not like I'm a fuckin' kid or some shit.”

Of course not.

Mickey’s lashing out with grumpiness out of fear, and Ian smiles to calm him, feeling his own cheeks warm.

“I mean,” he says, scratching once more at his jaw. “I'm glad you told me. That's...good to know. But.” He shrugs. Smiles. “You're Mickey.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Ian breathes out a short, puff of a laugh out his nose. “Nothing, really. Just. Don't worry about anything, okay? I mean. Maybe you haven't had sex with a guy before, but like, there's stuff I've never done. But I wouldn't expect the person I was with to treat me like a baby over it. We'd just do it, I'd ask questions if I had them, and then I'd figure it out.” He shrugs.

It’s just sex. Mickey is Mickey and Mickey could’ve fucked a thousand people or Mickey could’ve fucked exactly no one--not even girls--and it would all be the same to Ian. Ian would still want to kiss the freckle on his belly and touch at his thighs and hold him close, warm and tight.

It wouldn’t matter if he knew how to do it better than Ian or if Ian needed to walk him through it, step-by-step. Ian would go along with it, end of.

 _God_ , he wants to do it.

Ian’s just told him about his bipolar, and Mickey hasn’t left him. Mickey hasn’t made a disgusted face and he hasn’t hung up and he hasn’t tried to change the subject. He hasn’t done anything but be kind.

Mickey’s _kind_ to him. Mickey _listens_ to him.

Mickey hasn’t cancelled, and if things continue on the way they’ve been going, Mickey’s probably going to upgrade to the Platinum Package. They might have sex.

One evening, Ian might receive a notification saying Mickey’s upgraded and scheduled an in-person session, and he’ll get to meet him and touch him and give him free extras if he wants them.

He blows out a breath and smiles, considering his approach.

“Like I said.” He swallows, knowing he’s going to push a bit but wanting to, wanting to more than just about anything. “It's good to know—mostly 'cause I want to make sure it's really, really good for you.”

Shit. 

Shit. Shit.

“But you're a fuckin' adult. You know how to do it; you've just never done it before.”

There’s quiet for a moment. Ian half-expects Mickey to make excuses, to say he needs to go.

But instead, after Ian shifts around onto his side, holding his phone out in front of him and thinking about how Mickey’s doing the same in his own home, thinking about how they’re mirroring, the two of them simply settle in and watch each other.

“Thanks for being...” Mickey says suddenly, his soft eyes breaking away for a moment in nerves. “Not. Shocked or whatever.”

Ian nods. Of course. 

“And y'know,” he says, wanting to reassure Mickey. “Don't be like, embarrassed or ashamed or anything. It's pretty common, honestly.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but smiles. “Yeah, yeah. You can stop talkin' about it now.”

“I will, I will. Just. One more thing.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow.

Ian swallows, and his heart thump-thumps, hard-hard. His belly twists. “A lot of guys think it's really, really hot. Like, being someone's first.”

He feels his cheeks redden, and his palms get all sweaty.

 _God_ , imagining being inside Mickey.

He tries not to let his face show his thoughts, schooling his expression as much as he can while he watches pink bloom preciously across Mickey’s cheeks.

“Shut up,” Mickey says, biting his lip, and he’s sweet and beautiful and looks like a bright light in the darkness.

Ian closes his eyes, heart hammering.

Mara’d told him not to feel guilty for how good he feels. Not to be worried about what could happen or why or _how much was too much_? _Where was the edge_?

He lets the warm tingles of burgeoning love wash over him.

“Get some rest, Sleepyface,” Mickey says after a minute, and Ian opens his eyes to see him staring at him, smiling and soft.

“You too. Sorry for keeping you up.”

“It's cool.”

They stare at each other for a minute, unable to tear their eyes away.

It should feel weird. It should feel intrusive and awkward. It should make his skin crawl.

It doesn’t. Ian thinks he could stare at Mickey Milkovich forever.

Mickey Milkovich who knows about his bipolar and, in spite of that, just called him _Sleepyface_. Just smiled at him.

Just told him he’d never had sex with a guy before.

Ian worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Okay,” Mickey says with a tone of committed finality. “Go to sleep. You're fuckin' exhausted.”

“Yeah.” Ian takes a deep breath, which turns into a yawn. “Night, Mickey.”

“Night.”

They continue to stare for a moment before ending the call, and Ian wonders if love is a thing you can see. 

He feels it like a faint tattoo beginning to be etched across his skin.

That night, after he’s dozed for half an hour, hit the bathroom, and then made his way back to bundle up in his warm comforter, Ian takes out his phone.

And without a second thought, mind full of Mickey, Ian texts

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:19 AM):** I like you so much.

\------------------------  
\---  
\---

Ian checks in with Mindy at the station the next morning and clears his schedule for the rest of the week. After goddamned motherfucking Bobby tries to text him and after Christopher schedules not one but two in-person sessions on consecutive days later in the week--blowjobs, anal, naked cuddling--Ian signs on to kestrel, cancels all his appointments, and takes off Tuesday through Friday. 

It feels good to do, like a weight’s been lifted. Ian goes back to sleep until just after noon, then gets up, takes a shower, and stretches out on the couch with his favorite oatmeal-colored blanket and a bag of white cheddar Cheetos. Fuck a healthy diet when he’s adjusting to new configurations of his medication.

He watches the entire first season of _The Umbrella Academy_ in-between luxurious naps, and before he knows it, it’s dark outside and he’s rooting around in the kitchen for something to nuke for dinner.

After an unimpressive cheesy pasta thing and his meds with juice, Ian strips down to his boxers and climbs in bed.

He grabs his phone, which has been resting on his nightstand, plugged into the charger, and, yawning, sees that he has an Instagram notification of a DM from Mickey.

He smiles, heart thumping and warming at the thought.

\------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
Yo. Got the email about you being out of service. You doin ok?

 **insta_iang**  
Hey Mickey. Thanks for checking on me. You just went up a little on the nice meter. 😉

 **insta_iang**  
I'm doing better but still a little tired. Honestly, I just mostly wanted a few days completely off. I think I've been overdoing it, maybe. I'm using a few days of leave at work, too.

 **mickm7189**  
Got it. Well get some sleep.

 **insta_iang**  
You too. The shoplifters ain't gonna tackle themselves.

\------------------------

Ian bites his lip. Considers.

After their talk the night before, he feels a warmth in his bones borne of familiarity when he thinks of Mickey. He feels like they know each other a bit more now, like some escort-client line has been crossed in a way that makes Ian hopeful for the future and for what he thinks could turn into… _something_ , someday.

Maybe Mickey will be his boyfriend. Maybe they’ll love each other.

He taps his fingers against the sides of his phone and types up a message that he thinks will send them irrevocably forward.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
By the way, let me give you my personal number for whenever I have my work phone off.

\------------------------

He sends it to Mickey, and his belly flips with nerves while he waits on his reply.

\------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
Cool

\------------------------

Ian rubs his sleepy eyes with his right fist and snuggles down in his comforter.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
Night, Mick.

 **mickm7189**  
Night fuckhead

 **insta_iang**  
😍

\------------------------  
\---  
\---

Ian was sort of expecting--not to mention _wanting_ \--Mickey to start texting him on his personal number immediately.

He was expecting a _good morning_ text. A picture of Jovi. A lunch break bit of banter to entertain Mickey while he eats his food court pizza.

None of it comes, even as the clock ticks entirely through Mickey’s workday.

It sends stones to Ian’s belly, making him feel sick.

Not that Mickey has to text him every minute of the day. Definitely not.

Not that Mickey has to text him _at all_ , really.

It’s just that Ian was kind of thinking they were a little closer now since the sharing of their _deep, dark secrets_ , and he was hoping Mickey would take advantage of his personal phone number.

While making himself a snack, Ian turns on his work phone to check to make sure Mickey hasn’t texted him there, but all he finds are a few messages from his other clients and a slew of missed FaceTime calls from guys who were trying to get a cam session in outside of Ian’s work hours.

Ian knows that he can _technically_ text Mickey’s number. He has it, after all. But it’s also not his place to do that. Ian feels like he’d be forcing Mickey over the line rather than giving him a choice.

He blows out an anxious breath as he finishes cutting his apple slices and scoops out a huge glob of peanut butter to slather on top.

\---  
\---

Ian’s not great, but he’s better. His drowsiness is receding, and the deep circles that had formed under his eyes from lack of sleep over the past couple weeks have faded to a faint pink. 

Lip drops in unexpectedly that night with Fred and a bag of Chinese food. He does it sometimes when he’s stressed and needing to get away. Ian always jokes about Tami kicking him out, but he secretly thinks it’s likely not _too_ far from the truth sometimes when the Tamietti clan gets to be a little too much, the sisters helping Tami decorate their house now that the renovations are over and likely not appreciating Lip’s disinterest in the aesthetics of their living room.

The moment Lip walks into Ian’s apartment, he knows something’s up.

He pushes Freddie’s stroller into the middle of the floor and gives his brother a level stare.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping forward and crossing his arms over his chest.

And see, Ian _could_ lie to him. He could tell him he’s fine--just tired--and save himself both the time and the stress of telling the story.

But he doesn’t. Lip would see right through him.

So instead, Ian tells him about his hypomania and his new medication configuration, and Lip gives him a hug that leaves Ian pressing his face against his shoulder like he did when he was just a tiny, freckled little thing seeking comfort from his best friend.

Once done, adults again, they step away from each other with back pats, and Lip gives him a sucker punch on the arm.

“Ow, fuck!” Ian yells, wincing. 

“You can tell me your shit, y’know,” Lip says, voice even like he hadn’t just given his brother a bruise.

Shaking out his arm with his eyebrows bunched, Ian shrugs and goes over to steal Freddie from the stroller.

\---

They scarf down their Chinese--for Ian the first solid meal in days--and talk shit about people they know and people they don’t. They laugh about work and Carl's antics and all the dumb stuff they did as kids.

It feels good to be like this--to laugh with someone who makes you comfortable, to have someone to be there, to listen.

Ian’s thoughts turn to Mickey, and he wiggles on the couch so he can pull his phone from his pocket just to check. Just to see.

Nothing.

He must sigh when he shoves it back in his pocket, as Lip taps him with the side of his Coke bottle. “Still doin’ that fuck for cash thing?”

Ian _hm_ s and snatches his own bottle up from the coffee table. He takes a long drink and shrugs. “Yeah.”

They drink in silence for a minute, and Ian wants to laugh at the two eldest Gallagher boys gone sober.

Lip must also be thinking--but about other things--because after leaning over the couch to check on Freddie, who’s sleeping on a blanket spread across the floor, he sinks back into the corner of the couch and asks, “Hey. So you, uh, know what triggered your bipolar this time?” 

His voice is soft like there are people listening who aren’t allowed to know that Gallagher men can be gentle. “You’re not overdoin’ it and shit, right?”

Ian sighs, takes a sip off his Coke, and settles deeper into the couch cushions like he’s trying to squeeze himself in between. He hums, and Lip elbows him.

He has a feeling that Lip’s going to kill him, but with a wiggle of discomfort, he confesses, “The guy I’ve been talking to?”

Lip raises his brows.

“It’s, uh. Mickey. Milkovich, y’know?”

“No fuckin’ way.”

Lip’s face looks a cross between confused, amused, and shocked, like Ian’s just told him he fucked a guy with two dicks.

“Mickey Milkovich, Terry Milkovich’s kid? Got suspended every other week, tried to beat the shit out of me with a pool stick?”

Ian scrunches up his face in memory and nods. “He’s not like that anymore, though. He’s fuckin’...great.”

“What?”

“He’s all nice and shit. Sorta? I dunno.” He tilts his head. “Not really. But he’s an asshole in kinda this joking way, and he’s funny, and he’s got a cat and works security, and--”

“Fuck.” Lip snorts, and Ian turns to watch him scratch his thumbnail just below his bottom lip and then laugh. “You’re into this guy.”

Ian considers denying it, but well, he’s basically just read Lip the bulleted items on his list of Reasons Why I Like Mickey Milkovich.

“Yeah,” he admits, pressing his lips together and giving a nod. “I am.”

“Mickey Milkovich takes it up the ass? _Really_?”

Ian’s face cracks in a grin, and he rolls his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe? We haven’t really talked about it, y’know.”

“ _Fuck_.” Lip shakes his head and takes a long drink off his Coke. He looks thoughtful. “I used to write his English papers for him.”

Ian thinks back on the beginning of his and Mickey’s kestrel relationship, how Mickey’d written the apology email and said, _I was always shit at English in school so my writing sucks_. 

He smiles, fond, finding him unbearably cute.

“Jesus Christ, Ian,” Lip comments, clearly recognizing his expression. “Fuckin’ _Mickey Milkovich_ ’s got you fucked up.”

“Yeaaah.” Ian blows out a breath. “My therapist thinks I’m falling in love with him.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you?”

Ian squeezes his eyes shut. Rubs his fist against the space between his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

\---

Freddie wakes up several minutes later, and Ian spends the next half hour playing with him and his elephant toy, cuddling him, and pretending to eat him by _nom-nom-nom_ ming at his warm, chubby, sleep-sweaty little neck, causing him to scream with giggles.

God, he loves this little dude.

And loving this little dude makes him think of a little dude or girl he’d maybe like to have in the future--if he can, if that’s not just a pipe dream, if he can find someone to help him. 

It makes him think of Mickey, even if _that_ makes his cheeks warm.

Ian checks his phone again later on as Lip is strapping Fred back into his stroller, and a lump forms in his throat when he sees there’s nothing. No text. No Instagram message.

It’s _not_ a big deal. It’s happened before. It’s happened _recently_. They don’t have to talk every day, even though they usually do, even though Ian’d thought their confessions from the night before had drawn them closer.

Fuck. What if Ian’d been totally presumptuous by giving Mickey his number? What if Mickey was uncomfortable or freaked out by it? What if he didn’t want it? What if he thinks Ian’s some loser who’s obsessed with him, a pathetic fucking escort trying to get with him beyond the capacity of his job?

Not that he’d be wrong.

Ian sighs through his nose and puts his phone back in his pocket.

Lip notices, and Ian fidgets a little, awkward. 

“Hey,” he says, standing from his kid and coming over to place a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “No judgment, just. I’ve told you before how I feel about this shit. Do what you want, but if Mickey’s making you loco, y’know.” He shrugs.

Ian places his own hand on his brother’s wrist and gives him a squeeze. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Lip nods and pulls away. “Call me? Y’know, if you need to talk about shit.”

Ian smiles. “Fuckin’ sap.”

“Fuckin’ lovestruck fool.”

Ian flips him off with both hands and, with a quirk of his mouth, heads over to kiss Freddie goodbye.

\---  
\---

In bed that night, Ian makes an Instagram post of some of the pictures Lip took of him and the baby that day. He captions it _Freddie Gallagher: The Baby. The Myth. The Legend._ and smiles when Mandy’s the first to like it.

She leaves the comment, _Cuties_ 💛, and Ian likes it before plugging his phone into the charger and tugging the covers up to his chin.

He wonders what Mickey’s doing now.

It’s just after eleven, and it’s technically not too late for one of them to call the other.

Twice, Ian picks up his phone and opens up a new iMessage thread, typing in Mickey’s number because he’s memorized the last four digits due to his Instagram username and yet is too much of a nervous pussy to officially add him to his personal contacts list. He’s worried he’ll only have to delete it once Mickey decides he doesn’t want to have this type of contact with him.

But both times, he deletes the message and pulls the covers back over his head.

Ian likes to push. He likes to find a little vulnerable spot and prod at it until he can wiggle his way in. But something about this feels different. It feels like pushing might be a bad thing, and it feels like a violation, and it feels like Ian declaring himself important in Mickey’s life without Mickey’s input.

So he holds out.

He snuggles down in his comforter and shuts his eyes, and though it’s embarrassing and juvenile and makes him feel like a little closeted high school freshman praying for a boy to like him, he tries to will Mickey to make contact.

\---

He wakes the next morning to find that Mickey’s liked his Instagram post.

It’s a stupid thing to get so excited about, he thinks, but nevertheless, he finds his heart hammering as he lies in bed and stares at Mickey’s username on the list of 38 people who have liked his pictures.

He didn’t have to do this. If Mickey hadn’t liked his post, Ian honestly wouldn’t have thought a thing about it, as the guy still only has up the photo of him and Jovi as his only post and has less than ten total people following him. He’s not active on social media, and that’s fine.

But Mickey did it anyway. He saw Ian’s pictures last night and liked them.

Ian smiles like an idiot as he climbs out of bed and goes to take a shower.

\---

He’s feeling better, but he still lazes around the apartment all day, meaning to fully soak in his last two days of being completely free of obligations.

He eats a shit ton of food because his appetite is returning little by little and is making him ravenous enough to risk the potential resulting diarrhea, and then he vegges out in front of the TV.

It’s fine, and he’s relaxed most of the day, but his thoughts can’t help but wander onto Mickey and why he _still_ hasn’t texted him.

Mickey can do what he wants, of course, but it’s been days since Ian sent him his number, and the fact that Mickey hasn’t used it yet makes Ian think he never will.

But whatever. It’s fine. It makes Ian’s stomach cramp a bit as he checks his phone for the millionth time that day, but he’s decided that he’ll just wait until his offtime is over and then he’ll get back on his kestrel phone and text Mickey as normal. They’ll start up again, and it’ll all be fine. Great.

Mickey liked his photo, so Mickey doesn’t hate him, at least. Mickey wasn’t _completely_ turned off by his admission of his diagnosis, anyway.

He pulls his oatmeal blanket around him and tucks his phone down under the covers, out of sight, out of mind.

And he must’ve fallen asleep at some point, as he wakes at around five-thirty to a buzz and chime from his phone.

Startled, Ian grabs his phone and thinks he might faint when he sees the notification.

An attached photo from Mickey’s number.

Ian swipes open the text so fast he almost falls off the couch with the shifting of his body as he gets into a more mobile position.

He was hoping it would be a picture of Mickey, as Ian’s dying to see him, but it’s Jovi, instead, which is fine.

The cat’s just barely peeking out from where he’s perched on top of Mickey’s kitchen cabinets.

Ian smiles, and his heart floods with love.

Fuck.

He stares the picture, watching for some dancing dots that will indicate Mickey’s typing, maybe--that he’s going to send something else or he’s going to ask Ian a question or he’s going to say

_Yo. What you doin cheeseball motherfucker_

or

_You doin ok_

or

_Haven’t talked to you in a while_

And to those things Ian would say

 _Fuck you. I was trying to sleep._ 🖕 (😍)

or

_I’m better, thanks. Sleepy but should be back to normal soon._

or

 _I gave you my number for a reason, bitch._ 😏😎

But Mickey doesn’t send any of those things, and neither does Ian. 

Instead, feeling brave all of a sudden, feeling weird, feeling like something has shifted in the wrong direction, and feeling like they’re back to the pre-nudes state of their relationship but desperate to reclaim what they once had, Ian texts

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:47 PM):** ❤️️

\------------------------

because it’s the truest thing he knows.

And he doesn’t know what the red heart emoji means for him just yet. He’s not sure if it means love or like or _Hey. I’m glad you exist._

But even if it means all three of them, it feels appropriate. It feels like grasping, too, and it makes his heart thump-thump until it’s a kettledrum.

He sits up on the couch and criss-crosses his legs, holding his phone down in the space between and watching the screen, desperate to see the dancing dots. Desperate to see something, anything, a heart, a middle finger, a _Whatever, fuckhead_.

Mickey doesn’t reply.

He’s started the line of communication with the photo, so maybe Ian could message him again. Maybe he could say

_How was work?_

or

_Everything good?_

or

_My therapist thinks I’m falling in love with you, and I tend to agree. Thoughts?_

But, well, no. Whatever. Ian locks his phone screen and rubs his hands over his face. He’s gotta get a fucking grip.

Mara had told him it was okay to think about Mickey. That it was normal for people to fixate on the people they like, to daydream about them and to want to see them, talk to them all the time. Ian’s not sure if she meant _this_.

He’s a little worried this kind of thinking is what sent him over the edge.

Ian tucks his phone under his blanket and gets up to go pull on some sweats and a moisture-wicking long-sleeve T-shirt. He needs to go for a run.

\---  
\---

Mickey doesn’t text him again for the rest of the day, and he doesn’t text him at all on Friday.

Ian can’t even enjoy his day off because really, when you boil it down to the essential parts of his current overwhelming anxiety, you’re left with his fear that he’s somehow ruined everything.

\---  
\---

After a long conversation with Mindy at the station, Ian’s back on the work schedule beginning Monday, and just the thought of getting back to keep himself busy--of getting out of the fucking apartment where he’s worrying himself to death--gives him a burst of energy that’s enough to sustain him through a Saturday of fielding texts from his kestrel clients on his first day back in business.

Turning his work phone on for the first time in days is like opening the door to a room in which you’ve previously set off a bomb. Missed calls. Appointment requests. Texts that reveal seemingly zero awareness of the fact that Ian’s a human who’s allowed some time off every now and again.

It takes him hours to work through this shit, making lists of people he needs to contact once his work hours start again that night, filling in his calendar with his appointments and reading through previous conversations with his clients to make sure he’s back up to speed with their likes and dislikes. It’s enough to exhaust him all over again.

After lunch, Ian takes a two hour nap and only wakes to the chiming of his work phone.

Fuck.

He considers ignoring it, as he’s _still off_ , goddammit, but his curiousity gets the better of him.

And he’s glad it does, because _shit_ , it’s Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (3:51 PM):** What are your work hours?

 **Ian (3:53 PM):** Hey Mickey.

 **Ian (3:53 PM):** Why?

 **Mickey (3:54 PM):** Cuz I didn't know that was a thing

 **Ian (3:54 PM):** Yeah. Well, my hours are Monday through Saturday, 7 PM – 11 PM, but I mean, I don't really care about them or adhere to them all that much.

\------------------------

It’s a lie. The truth is more like _I don’t really care about them or adhere to them at all when it comes to you, Mickey_ , but Ian can’t exactly say that.

He rereads Mickey’s message--his quick, to-the-point, back-to-business tone--and bites his lip, feeling stupidly hurt, sort of, like he can’t even get a friendly and familiar _Yo, ‘sup?_ out of the guy.

Nervously, Ian swallows and adds to his previous text

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:55 PM):** I just schedule all my appointments with my other clients during that time period.

\------------------------

Not you, Mickey. Others. Ian wills him to understand. High school freshman praying for a boy to like him.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (3:56 PM):** Ok, well I was just reading on the app the other day and saw there's like a shit ton of stuff I haven't been doing. Or that I've been doing wrong or whatever

\------------------------

Doing wrong?

Ian bites his lip and rereads Mickey’s message. 

Shit. No, Mickey.

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:56 PM):** Not your fault. Like, at all.

 **Ian (3:56 PM):** In fact, 90% of it is pretty firmly my fault, so I think we can just go with everything about us being unprofessional and not worry about it.

\------------------------

Please.

He wills. He wills and he wills and he wills.

And his heart stops when he reads Mickey’s next message. There’s a softness that floods his body, a warmth that’s been gone for days, exactly what he needs and exactly what he loves, and he brings his hand up to nervously wipe across his mouth.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (3:57 PM):** I didn't know if I was like stressing you out or whatever. I dunno.

\------------------------

Ian thinks that if he were to look in the mirror right now, he’d see shiny eyes and pink cheeks. His breath comes in little puffs.

Has Mickey been _worried_ about him? Is that why he hasn’t been texting him since he’s been off the clock?

Is that why he’s now texting him again on the day he’s back to work and asking about his hours?

 _Fuck_ , Mickey. Ian’s heart hurts when he imagines him thinking he’s stressing Ian out or putting too much work on him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:58 PM):** Mickey, shut up.

\------------------------

he types without a moment’s hesitation.

Shut the absolute fuck up, you sweet motherfucker.

Ian drops the kestrel phone on his bed and reaches into his pocket for his personal.

He pulls up the number pad and dials in Mickey’s number by heart.

 _My therapist thinks I’m falling in love with you_ , he thinks, over and over again.

He calls him.

\---

Mickey answers after the third ring, and when he does, his voice is soft like cotton. Ian’s heart aches.

“Yeah?” 

“You're an idiot.”

“The fuck--”

Ian laughs, breath picking up, hormones flooding his system and sending him into a state of weird, euphoric rush. It’s suddenly absolutely imperative that Mickey understands. That Mickey knows he hasn’t done a damned thing wrong. That Mickey knows he’s _different_. He’s so fucking different.

“You literally do the opposite of stress me out, Mickey,” he says, heart thudding, blood rushing in his ears. “I gave you my personal phone number, you asshole. Do you think I've ever even remotely done anything like that with another client?”

He pauses. Rubs his free hand over his face.

“So just… Just don't, okay? You can text me, call me, FaceTime me anytime you fuckin' want.”

Please. Please.

There’s a burst of static as Mickey blows out a breath. “I dunno,” he says, voice sounding pained. “We just talk a lot, and it's outside your work hours, and you said you're overworked so I didn't know if this shit like, caused your bipolar thing, or.”

 _Fuck_. 

God, Ian wants to touch his face. He wants to press their foreheads together. Hold his body close.

“Mickey,” he says, lips pulling into a tight smile. “If it did, it's not 'cause you're fuckin' stressing me out, okay? I mean.” 

_I mean, it’s because my therapist thinks I’m falling in love with you._

_I mean, it’s because I’m falling in love with you._

“Just. Don't.”

It’s quiet for a minute. Ian hears the gentle, rhythmic _shhh_ of Mickey’s breaths.

“Are you okay?” Mickey whispers.

Ian smiles. “I'm good. Not as tired. Brain feels...” He taps his head with a finger. “...pretty okay.”

 _Now_ , at least.

There’s a little huff from Mickey’s end. “Sorry,” he says. “I don't really know how to like, do this.”

Do this? He’s doing something?

They’re doing something together?

Ian closes his eyes, feeling heat seep into his cheeks. “Me neither, Mick,” he confesses. “So you can just move over in the fuckin' boat. Give me some room.”

He breathes, and he thinks about hugs. Comfort.

He thinks about Mickey being a closeted little boy getting Lip to write his English papers. He thinks about him being scared of himself then, maybe, of what it meant to be gay in the Southside. Ian thinks about Mickey now, worried and nervous, not sure how to do things like this just yet.

“Do you wanna know something?” he asks, voice soft and slow. Wanting to gentle him.

Mickey hums in response.

“I asked my fuckin' brother about you.” He chuckles. “Lip.”

“He used to write my English papers.”

“Yeah. That's what he said.” There’s a brief pause in which Ian thinks he can hear the _snnnick_ of a lighter. “And then I like, tried to Google you, and you're like a fuckin' ghost. There's nothing. I think I maybe found your Facebook profile, but it's completely blank and you have no friends.”

Mickey laughs at that. “Stalker.”

“Bitch, at least I didn't accidentally friend request you on Facebook or something.”

“Are you ever gonna get over that shit?”

“Never ever ever. It's funny as fuck.”

“I'm flipping you off right now.”

“I don't doubt it.”

They laugh for a minute, and there’s the sound of Mickey blowing out a stream of smoke as he starts to tell Ian about how he recognized his picture all those months ago--how he went to the Kash and Grab and had an unexpected flood of memories.

“I sometimes walk through the neighborhood and go in there to get a drink, and I think you like, messaged me or something and it jogged my memory.”

Ian swallows. Pulls his legs up against his chest and wraps his left arm around them. “What am I like in your memory?”

“Freckly. Had that dumb haircut with the bangs.”

“Fuck you.” Ian laughs, somehow not expecting that. 

They’ve talked about his stupid bangs before. They’ve talked about his freckles. Ian was wanting to know what he remembers about his personality. Was he a diligent little nerd? Was it obvious he was fucking the boss?

“I used to steal shit all the time,” Mickey admits, as if Ian didn’t fuckin’ know that.

“Yeah, Kash and Linda fuckin' hated you. Did you know Linda installed security cameras because of that?”

“Fuck security cameras.”

They laugh together for a minute. Ian feels happier and lighter than he has in weeks. He feels like they’re on the same page.

He feels like Mickey might like him.

Not just _like_ as in doesn’t mind him. Not just _like_ as in will entertain his texts.

Mickey fucking _cares_ about him.

He presses his face to his knees and breathes against the fabric of his sweats.

Ian’s falling in love with him.

\---

They talk about the Kash and Grab and about how Ian hasn’t been in there in years. It’s weird that such a strange, formative part of his teenage years, of his sexuality, of his views of life and the world, is still out there existing, is there for Mickey to stop by on his walks, is going on as if Ian never left it.

They talk about Lincoln Grove High and about how Mickey dropped out but went on to get his GED when he was in his early twenties. Ian says he’s proud of him, and Mickey scoffs in a way that Ian knows means he’s blushing.

They talk about _Mandy_.

“Did you know that I’ve literally been to your house like, multiple times?” Ian asks, stretching out on his bed and tucking his left arm behind his head.

“Are you fuckin’ serious.”

“Deadly.”

“ _Deadly_? Fuckin’ goof.”

Ian laughs. “Shut up. But yes. Ate your pizza rolls and everything.”

“Where the hell was I?”

“Doin’ some cool Milkovich shit, probably.”

“Probably.”

There’s a puff of static, a little laugh from Mickey that makes Ian squeeze his eyes shut, holding back the tiny whine in his throat.

At the foot of his bed, Ian hears his kestrel phone chime with an alert of some sort. Fuck. Yeah. He’s got shit to prepare for. He wants to talk to Mickey forever.

“Hey,” he says, pulling his arm out from behind his head and rubbing his face with his hand. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbles, and maybe Ian’s hearing things, but it sounds to him that maybe, just maybe, Mickey doesn’t want to go, either. “I've gotta go get Jovi some more food and shit.”

Ian _hm_ s. “Well, kiss the little guy for me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And fuckin' promise me something.”

There’s a pause. Then: “What?”

Ian takes a deep breath, scratches at his stubbly jaw, and is simply out with it. He might as well.

“I've stopped apologizing for being unprofessional, so you stop thinkin' for like one fuckin' second that you're bothering me, okay?” He pauses for a moment. When Mickey doesn’t respond, he forges on.

“Like, I know that you almost never start conversations, and you don't call me or anything like that. But. You can is what I want you to know. And I don't give a fuck about work hours or shit like that. Just. Talk to me whenever the fuck you want to, okay? About anything. Even if it's like, telling me about a movie you watched or about something funny that happened at work.”

Ian holds his breath, heart pounding, as he waits for Mickey’s response.

“Fine. Yeah.”

“'cause if you can't tell because you're a fuckin' idiot, I like talkin' to you, Milkovich.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Gallagher.”

He closes his eyes. “You make me happy, y'know,” he whispers, trying his hardest to keep his voice consistent, even, unwavering. 

“I'm like, fuckin' working a lot, and I don't really have a lot of interesting shit going on in my life other than stupid family drama sometimes. And believe it or not, I don't even really have any friends besides a couple people at work I go out with on occasion. So.” He pauses. Opens his eyes. _Breathes_.

“Anyway. I'm just sayin' that you and Lip are like, the only people I ever talk to about stuff, and well, Lip's kind of a dick sometimes.” He chuckles. “So are you, for that matter.”

Mickey snorts. Sniffs. Murmurs, “Yeah.”

Ian smiles. Fuck this cute asshole. 

“Mm,” he hums. “Love that response to my monologue.” 

Mickey’s quiet for a moment, and Ian thinks he’s maybe scared him off. 

But then he whispers something that makes Ian’s heart hurt.

“I don't really talk to anybody, either,” Mickey says, and it's low and a little nervous. “Fuckin' pathetic. You're the only person I've texted this whole week.” He laughs, and it sounds sad.

Ian wonders if it’s acceptable to tell Mickey that if he wants, if he really, really wants, he can come over. Ian’ll hold him and kiss him and make him feel good in every way he can.

Instead, figuring Mickey would hang up on him and never speak to him again, Ian says simply, “Then can we just agree that us talking to each other is a really fucking good thing and go from there?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, immediately. He’s breathless.

He’s precious.

They say their goodbyes, and when Ian hangs up, he immediately adds Mickey’s number to his contacts.

😍 **Mickey** 😍

He laughs because that’s dumb as fuck. Changes it to 😏 **Mickey** 😏.

He smiles so hard he has to turn onto his belly and muffle it in his pillow.

\---  
\---

Ian has a busy four hours back to his kestrel work that night. Bobby’s being clingy, and then there are the multiple cam sessions and some pictures and videos he stages and takes for some of his other clients.

By the time eleven rolls around, Ian’s tired and hungry.

He bakes himself a flatbread pizza, grabs a Coke from the fridge, and settles down at the kitchen table to dig in.

As he’s halfway through his food, watching Netflix on his phone and slurping away at his drink, a text comes in on his goddamned work phone.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:32 PM):** First night back go ok

\------------------------

Ian smiles even as he wants to throttle Mickey for not texting his personal cell.

And y’know what, whatever.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:33 PM):** Fine.

 **Ian (11:33 PM):** Also, this is your two minute warning. I’m turning off this phone, and you’re not allowed to ever text me on it before 7 and after 11 ever again. 😏

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply, and Ian rolls his eyes goodnaturedly, sending another text to clarify.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:34 PM):** Because you should text my personal cell instead. 😎 

**Ian (11:34 PM):** From now on, this one’s staying on my kitchen counter until I open up shop.

\------------------------

Mickey still doesn’t respond, and Ian’s reading and re-reading his texts, trying to come up with a better way of putting what he’s trying to express, when his personal phone chimes.

He grins.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:36 PM):** Fine. Ya happy? 🖕

 **Ian (11:36 PM):** Sure fucking am. 😎

 **Mickey (11:37 PM):** Your emojis continue to suck

 **Ian (11:37 PM):** YOU continue to suck.

 **Mickey (11:37 PM):** Fuckhead

 **Ian (11:38 PM):** Wow. 😍

\------------------------

Wow.

Ian takes a bite of pizza, and he thinks about what Mara had said to him at their session earlier in the week.

 _The happiness you feel when you’re falling is one of the best things in the world_.

It’s addicting. It’s emotional. It makes Ian want to scream and laugh and fucking _fly_. He thinks he could.

He doesn’t know how it’s all going to turn out. He doesn’t know if Mickey likes him as much as Ian likes him. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever meet--if they’ll ever kiss and touch and hold hands in the street.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to kiss the warmth of Mickey’s neck and hold him close, feeling safe and whole and loved.

Loving’s a risk, Ian thinks half an hour later, turning off his work phone and setting it to charge on his kitchen counter.

It’s a risk to his hopes, a risk to his dreams, a risk to his happiness and mental health, even.

Falling in love scares him.

What if it doesn’t work out? What if it hurts? What if it fucks him up and he gets bad again, bad like before?

His phone chimes from the kitchen table, and he yawns, stretches, and heads over to check it.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:02 AM):** Night, sleepyface

\------------------------

Ian grins, heart happy-- _so_ happy--and taps into the text box.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** Night, Mickey. Sleep tight.

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** 😊

\------------------------

Ian thinks about the fact that he’s messaging Mickey on his own phone. They have each other’s numbers.

They _like_ each other.

And well, Ian decides then and there, locking his phone screen and picking up his empty dish and Coke bottle--

What’s life without a little risk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter Six:  
> -I desperately want the heart-eyes emoji that Ian uses to be the smiley with the three little hearts around it, but I guess AO3's coding isn't updated for that emoji, since it just shows up as a box for me. But just do me a favor: whenever you see the heart-eyes used in response to Mickey teasingly calling Ian names, think of it as that one.
> 
> -When I wrote LRPD, I wasn't sure whether Ian and Mickey started using Ian's personal cell only after this chapter, so I left it a little ambiguous. I made my decision here. (I think?)
> 
> -If there are ever any minor inconsistencies between EAY and LRPD, please know that I'm doing my best! I'm rereading LRPD chapter-by-chapter as I write EAY, and it's totally possible that I've introduced super minor things in EAY that I casually mention later on in LRPD, and I've just forgotten about them. An example would be when, in EAY, I had Ian and Mickey discus Ian's bangs when he worked at the Kash and Grab like three chapters ago, and I realized as I was writing this that I had Mickey mention them presumably for the first time in chapter six. So just bear with me. ♥️
> 
> Thanks so much, everyone! I hope you enjoyed! <33
> 
> If you're interested, I'm currently writing a new WIP called [Cooperative Gameplay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568729). I'd love for you to check it out! I'll be posting the 2nd chapter within the next week or so!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Gray


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday and a first date. ♥️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: In which Ian's gone. Totally and completely. Irrevocably. The end. Goodnight.
> 
> This was my favorite chapter of LRPD. It was meant to be the mid-point, though it didn't turn out that way, and because of the reference to the title song, it's sort of the defining chapter. I'm glad this one is my last post of 2020. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Warnings for Chapter Seven:** Ian's getting there, but he still doesn't have a super clear understanding of the fact that he was groomed as a kid. There's some brief talk about Kash and Ned.

_I normally wouldn’t brag about being the best uncle ever, but it’s my birthday, so I think I will._ 😎

Ian smiles deviously as he types out his caption and makes the Instagram post. It’s a photo of Franny on his shoulders and Fred in his arms, back to Ian’s chest. Lip had taken it the hour before after wryly chastising him for buttering up the kids.

“I can’t help it if they adore me,” Ian’d replied with a shrug, taking his phone back after setting down his niece and nephew.

Lip had scoffed at him and bent down to scoop up his son. “Remind me, Fred,” he’d said in a gentle voice, “to give _Uncle Ian_ a call next time you wake up with blow-out shit all over your clothes.”

Ian smirks now, thinking of it, as he tags Tami and Debbie in the post.

He’s at the kitchen table, munching a drumstick and cautiously nursing a beer while random siblings mill around, eating, discussing their life drama, and doing the dishes.

Once you’re past elementary school age, family birthday celebrations mostly consist of a bucket of Extra Crispy, sometimes a generic Jewel-Osco cake, and a playful headlock or neck-squeeze. 

Ian turns twenty-four with the same amount of fanfare, the Gallaghers that were available having gathered at the house at seven and worked their way through two twelve-pieces with biscuits, a two-liter orange Fanta, and a case of Old Style.

It feels strange being twenty-four. Not that it’s a milestone age, but it seems so much older than twenty-three. It makes Ian a little wistful, a little sad if he’s honest--as he recalls the life plans he’d had ten years ago when he was fourteen and optimistic and thought he had a chance of getting out.

He loves his EMT job, and he’s saving for a future. He’s genuinely trying to manage his mental health, and he hopes, hopes--high school freshman praying for a boy to like him hopes--that he might have some _one_ someday with whom to share his existence.

Ian’s as happy as he _can_ be, really, and twenty-four’s been a hell of a lot better to him already than any number past the age of sixteen. But he can’t help but wish for things as he slowly finishes up his beer. Can’t help but watch his brother hold his child and think about how, as a kid, he always sorta pictured himself growing up, becoming an officer, becoming a provider. Maybe not exactly having the white picket fence with two-point-five kids, but he’d wanted a legacy and security and the satisfaction that comes with sustaining something that’s _his_ , that he can love, that he can provide for, that won’t be taken away.

The beer’s made him a little fuzzy--made his belly warm and his muscles soft. Made him a touch maudlin.

Lip comes over and taps at his shoulder, and Ian stands from the table and follows him out the door.

They sit on the back steps while Lip lights up a blunt, and Ian leans back on his hands and looks off into the darkness dotted by streetlights. He breathes the tang of cheap weed and the industrial mustiness of Southside grime. Sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

They’re quiet for the longest time as Lip smokes, but it’s comfortable. They shared a room, shared each other’s space for most of their lives. They don’t have to talk to each other every second.

After a while, though, Lip gives a little huff as if having thought of something funny and asks, “So how’s Mickey?” He holds out the blunt. Comments quietly, “It’s weak.”

Ian hesitates for a moment, knowing he probably shouldn’t. But fuck it. It’s his birthday. He snatches it up, takes an indulgent drag, holds, holds, and passes it back, the smoke seeping out the corners of his mouth before he blows it in a stream toward his brother.

“Fuck you, ‘how’s Mickey,’” he says, smoke-muffled, gently kicking his brother’s leg. 

After Lip takes a slow, knowing drag in answer, eyes like daggers to his soul, Ian shrugs. Sighs. “Fine.”

“ _Fine_?”

“Shut up. I dunno.” Ian feels his cheeks heat beneath his eyes, and he snatches back the blunt to disguise his embarrassment.

Lip just watches him, and yeah, okay. Ian cracks, of course, like he always does around him. 

“I like him,” he says, giving his brother a single-shoulder shrug. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, as Ian quite literally told him the week before that he thought he might be falling in love.

Lip calls him on it, snatching back the blunt. “Bullshit you _like_ him.”

“I dunno.” Ian pauses. Sniffs. “I think we’re maybe...into each other. Or whatever. _Something_.”

Fuck.

That sounds bizarre to say out loud. He _thinks_ it, maybe. Hopes it. Stupid. He stretches out his legs across the lower steps.

“So, Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich is like payin’ you for what? Cybersex?”

“Nah, we’re still not. _That_. I dunno. We’re just like, talkin’ and shit. Still.”

“Like, _romantically_ or?”

“No, but.” Ian takes a deep breath and holds out his fingers for the blunt. “Sort of? Flirty, kinda.”

“ _Flirting_ with Mickey Milkovich,” Lip says around a mouthful of smoke. He hands over the blunt. “How’s that work?”

“Mm.” Ian takes his final hit and hands it back. “A lot of middle-finger emojis.”

Lip raises an eyebrow at him.

“And dick pics.”

“No fuckin’ way!” Lip giggles like a kid, sending Ian into his own huffy chuckle.

He rubs his palms over his face. “Yeeeaah.”

“Bet he’s got a tiny dick.”

Ian snorts. “Pics of _my_ dick, I should say. We’re not there yet. He sends me shirtless stuff, though.”

“Fuck. You gonna meet up?”

“Hopefully?” Ian sits up straighter and crosses his arms over his chest, the evening chill beginning to set in, blowing across his skin and raising goosebumps. The weed’s settled like a warm, relaxing fog around his head. “Probably not any time soon. Don’t know if he really wants to.” He shrugs. Sniffs. “Kinda cagey.”

“Coulda guessed that. A gay Milkovich?” Lip chuckles and flicks the roach down the stairs. He rubs his palms over the thighs of his jeans.

“Yeah.” 

“If you _do_ meet up, ya gonna make him pay for it?”

That’s the question. Ian shrugs.

They leave it at that. 

After a few minutes of silence, Lip stands and then pulls Ian to his feet, and the two of them head back into the house for cake.

Ian would love more than anything if Mickey quit the app. It’s a weird veil hanging over their relationship--one Ian tries not to think about too much for fear of the guilt eating him alive. Guilt over the fact that he’s getting as much or more out of this as Mickey, and yet he’s still accepting his money every week. 

It feels _unethical_ , almost, like Ian’s scamming him out of his cash. 

Let me FaceTime you from the dark of my bedroom. Listen to me tell you all my depressing shit. Comfort me. Make me feel good. Pay $65.99 for services rendered. Let the company take 70% while the rest is direct-deposited into my savings account.

It makes his stomach hurt to think about. It feels fucked up. It feels _wrong_.

The problem, though, is that there’s absolutely zero guarantee that Mickey wants to quit. That Mickey thinks of Ian as anything other than a sex worker he’s paying for flirty conversation and dick pics. 

There’s no guarantee that if Ian suggested he’d do all of this for free--that he’d talk to Mickey all night, every night just to hear his voice--Mickey wouldn’t ghost him. That he wouldn’t be made uncomfortable enough by his virtual hooker trying to get personal that he’d block Ian’s number.

He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to deal with this situation. It feels like the bipolar question all over again. Will he care? Will Mickey still talk to him when he finds out?

He _thinks_ Mickey cares about him. He was kind about his bipolar. Clearly enjoys talking to him. 

There’s just so much uncertainty that Ian doesn’t want to risk anything. He’ll risk a lot. He’ll risk his mental health. Let himself go crazy with intense feelings for him. Have his meds adjusted a hundred times. 

He doesn’t know if he’s willing to risk his relationship with him.

Back in the house, Ian blows out number two and number four candles stuck in a race car cake chosen by Franny. His siblings crowd around him, giving him pats on the back and side-hugs, and he scoops up Freddie once the candles are out, swipes at the cake, and gives him a bit of frosting from his finger.

“You’re changing his diaper,” Lip reminds, and Ian simply shrugs and spins a bouncy circle with his little nephew, dancing to [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GtCa-f7X2T8) someone starts up on the bluetooth speaker.

Whatever. He’ll figure it out.

\---  
\---

It’s nearly midnight when he gets home.

After taking his meds, Ian heads to his room to change. He pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket for the first time in hours, then gets out of his pants and drops down on his bed in his boxers and T-shirt to stretch out while he checks his messages.

He has twenty-seven likes on his Instagram post and several _happy birthday_ comments from Mandy, Ellie, Jake, people he knows well, people he vaguely remembers from high school. 

There’s a missed call and a voice mail.

There are texts, too--from Fiona, Carl, V. 

Mickey.

Ian swipes open Mickey’s texts, heart hammering.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:22 PM):** Ignore my voicemail, it’s dumb

 **Mickey (11:22 PM):** Happy birthday or whatever

\------------------------

He’d _called_ him? Left a voicemail?

At lightning speed, Ian pulls up his voicemails and sees a 33-second message from Mickey, recorded at 9:46 PM. Desperately, he presses play.

 _Uh, hey._ There’s a four second pause. _It’s Mickey. Just saw it was your birthday ‘cause you were braggin’ ‘n shit on that stupid post. I don’t know if you were jokin’ or whatever, but if it is your birthday, uh. Happy birthday._ Pause. Ian hears him breathe, nervous. _Okay. Bye. You don’t have to call me back or anything. I just wanted to say that, so. Okay. See ya._

Ian rolls over onto his belly and buries his face in his pillow. 

Fuck.

He then plays the message three times over, cheeks pink and warm with happy excitement, heart leaping because holy shit. Holy shit. 

Mickey left him a birthday voicemail.

It’s such a stupid, simple thing, but it makes Ian’s belly erupt with butterflies in the worst way. He presses his palm to the center of his stomach and blows out a breath.

He’s gone. Totally and completely. Irrevocably. The end. Goodnight.

He listens to the message one more time, gnawing at his bottom lip to hold back a grin at Mickey’s shaky little breaths in the pauses, then swipes open his texts.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:58 PM):** Mickey. 

\------------------------

That’s all he can say, really.

Mickey. Motherfucking heart-eyes.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:59 PM):** ???

 **Ian (11:59 PM):** Thanks for the voicemail. 😊

 **Mickey (12:00 AM):** You weren’t supposed to listen to it

 **Ian (12:00 AM):** Too bad. 😎

 **Ian (12:00 AM):** I listened to it like four times.

\------------------------

He doesn’t even mind admitting it.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:01 AM):** Why??

 **Ian (12:01 AM):** Why not?

 **Ian (12:02 AM):** Anyway. Thanks again. You didn’t have to do that.

 **Mickey (12:02 AM):** Whatever

 **Mickey (12:02 AM):** How old are you, 24?

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** Yep! 😳

 **Mickey (12:03 AM):** Gettin too old for your gross geriatric clients

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** 🖕

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** I’m still young and sexy.

\------------------------

He smirks as he types it, knowing Mickey’s about to comment on his ego.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** Holy shit

 **Ian (12:04 AM):** What?

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** How do you sleep at night under the weight of your ego

\------------------------

Ian grins.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** Like a baby. 👶

 **Mickey (12:05 AM):** Fuckhead

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** 😍

 **Mickey (12:06 AM):** You suck

 **Ian (12:06 AM):** You have to be nice to me. It’s my birthday.

 **Mickey (12:06 AM):** Not anymore

 **Ian (12:06 AM):** No fair. I only got to talk to you for two minutes of my birthday, so you’re just gonna have to give me some extra time out of the goodness of your heart.

 **Mickey (12:07 AM):** I’ve been talkin to you all day. Shoulda told me it was your birthday earlier

 **Mickey (12:07 AM):** Your fault, bitch 

**Ian (12:08 AM):** Wow.

 **Ian (12:08 AM):** Guess that’s what I get for being humble. 😞

 **Mickey (12:08 AM):** Surprised you didn’t burst into flames just now

 **Ian (12:09 AM):** Are you calling me hot? 

**Mickey (12:09 AM):** 🖕🖕🖕 You’re the worst

 **Ian (12:09 AM):** 😏

\------------------------

In retrospect, he wishes he’d told Mickey it was his birthday that morning while they texted on Ian’s L ride to work. 

He’d thought about it, and Mickey probably would’ve believed it to be on brand for him--announcing his birthday and jokingly demanding special treatment. But it’d just felt weird, like he was maybe being _too much_ , like he was expecting something of Mickey.

He reads back through some of their texts from earlier in the day. Mickey had sent him a picture of himself in a leather security office chair at work, his brows raised and blue eyes wide, cute as fuck in his little navy button-down with a headset around his neck.

Ian had sent him one in return of himself at work, standing outside on a smoke break and squinting, the sunshine bright against his skin. 

Mickey had just texted back 

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:12 AM):** Freckle face

\------------------------

yet it had made Ian take a series of deep breaths in order to compose himself before he went back into the station.

He scrolls down a little further and reads over their lunchtime texts.

\-----------------------

 **Ian (12:04 PM):** What’s for lunch, Milkovich?

 **Mickey (12:04 PM):** You ask me this every day

 **Ian (12:05 PM):** And every day I’m hoping you’ve decided to be more creative with your food choices. 

**Ian (12:05 PM):** You have an entire food court at your fingertips. Spice up your life!

 **Mickey (12:05 PM):** Fuck you

 **Ian (12:06 PM):** Extra pepperoni Sbarro or Potbelly clubby today?

 **Mickey (12:06 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕

 **Ian (12:06 PM):** The pizza, huh? 😞

\------------------------

And it’s then that Mickey texts him.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:13 AM):** The 1 and only nice thing you’re getting:

 **Mickey (12:13 AM):** Hope your birthday was ok

\------------------------

 _Mickey_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:13 AM):** Wow. You’re really going all out, aren’t you? 😉

 **Mickey (12:14 AM):** 🖕

 **Ian (12:14 AM):** Thank you. 😊 It was.

 **Mickey (12:14 AM):** Yeah yeah, whatever

 **Mickey (12:15 AM):** Good

 **Ian (12:15 AM):** When’s your birthday?

 **Mickey (12:15 AM):** 8/10

\------------------------

He wonders where they’ll be in August. If they’ll still be talking, if they’ll have met up, if Ian will have kissed his mouth and his forehead. Stroked his thumbs over his eyebrows.

He wonders if by then Mickey will have upgraded to the Platinum Package. He wonders if he’ll have ordered his first sexual experience with a man, and he wonders if Ian’ll have accepted money for it or if he’ll have told him, 

_Nope. No way. We’re not meeting in a hotel. You’re coming to my place, and I’m gonna kiss you first._

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:16 AM):** 3 months away. What should I get you?

 **Mickey (12:16 AM):** Peace and quiet

 **Mickey (12:16 AM):** Probably take you til then to figure out how to stop talking

 **Ian (12:16 AM):** 🖕🖕

 **Ian (12:16 AM):** Mean!

 **Mickey (12:17 AM):** Told ya you were only gettin 1 nice thing

 **Ian (12:17 AM):** Send me a picture of yourself and I might forgive you.

 **Mickey (12:17 AM):** Don’t care if you forgive me or not

 **Ian (12:17 AM):** Send me a picture of yourself because you’re a nice person.

 **Mickey (12:18 AM):** I ain’t nice

 **Ian (12:18 AM):** Send me a picture of yourself because I want one.

 **Mickey (12:19 AM):** Dickhead

 **Ian (12:19 AM):** 😍

\------------------------

Four minutes later, a picture comes in. 

It’s a chest-up selfie of Mickey leaned back against the headboard of his bed. He’s wearing a faded crimson T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, his hair’s a little messy--the longer bit of it flopping over his forehead--and he’s sporting a gentle, closed-mouth smile. His eyes are soft, brows relaxed.

Ian hugs his pillow. Blows out a breath.

Asks himself, _What’s the worst that could happen?_

He texts,

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:24 AM):** You’re kinda cute, Milkovich.

\------------------------

and immediately holds his breath.

Was it stupid? Probably.

Ian’s called him _cute_ before, so it’s not completely out of left field. Fuck, he’s even told him in a joking context that he thinks his pictures are hot.

But well, this feels a little different, maybe, now that they’re texting completely outside the bounds of kestrel.

Mickey doesn’t reply for the longest time, and Ian considers apologizing.

He types, _Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Your smile just looks good on you._ but before he can send it through, Mickey replies.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:29 AM):** Shut up

\------------------------

Ian grins, happy and relieved, and deletes everything he’s typed.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:29 AM):** Excuuuuse me, sir.

 **Mickey (12:30 AM):** 🖕

 **Ian (12:30 AM):** Feel free to tell me I’m cute, too. I’ll wait.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply.

And maybe it’s the fact that he’s still a tiny bit loose and giggly from his one fucking beer and Lip’s weak-ass ditch weed shit, but Ian bursts into a laugh that he tries to muffle in his comforter.

Holy fuck, he likes him so much.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:33 AM):** Let me send you a picture to remind you.

\------------------------

Ian rolls over onto his back, holds up his phone, and snaps a portrait-mode shoulders-up shot of himself, head resting on his pillow, cheesing like a kid.

He sends it and waits.

And waits.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:37 AM):** Hurry! I’m getting old and losing my cuteness by the minute. 

**Ian (12:38 AM):** [https://youtu.be/IkdmOVejUlI ](https://youtu.be/IkdmOVejUlI)

**Mickey (12:39 AM):** Jesus christ

 **Mickey (12:39 AM):** You suck so much, man

 **Ian (12:40 AM):** <https://youtu.be/xy_NKN75Jhw>

**Ian (12:42 AM):** <https://youtu.be/1sruEnQ9HkU>

**Ian (12:44 AM):** <https://youtu.be/hQHceE-N57Q>

**Mickey (12:45 AM):** Stupid freckle motherfucker

 **Ian (12:45 AM):** Okay. But am I a CUTE stupid freckle motherfucker?

 **Mickey (12:46 AM):** Sure 🖕

 **Mickey (12:46 AM):** Whatever

 **Mickey (12:46 AM):** I hate you

 **Ian (12:47 AM):** But you think I’m cute, and that’s all that matters. 😌

 **Mickey (12:47 AM):** How do you possibly have even one client

 **Mickey (12:47 AM):** Other than me cuz I’m pretty sure I’ve gotta be the nicest motherfucker alive to put up with your annoying ass

 **Ian (12:48 AM):** See, your mistake is assuming I’m anything like this with my other clients.

 **Mickey (12:48 AM):** They’re fuckin lucky then

 **Ian (12:48 AM):** 😏

 **Mickey (12:49 AM):** Dumbass

 **Ian (12:49 AM):** 😍😍😍

\------------------------

Ian never meant to feel this way.

He scrolls back up to Mickey’s picture. Taps it. Enlarges it. Stares at the softness of his facial features and thinks about how he’s not flipping him off or pulling his _wannabe badass_ face. He’s just smiling, gentle as anything.

Ian wants to touch their noses together. Touch their mouths together.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:18 AM):** Night, birthday dickhead

\------------------------

Mickey texts him this twenty minutes later, after their conversation’s wound down and Ian’s gotten ready for bed.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:19 AM):** Night, you cute asshole.

\------------------------

So what if he makes a thing out of it?

He allows it as a birthday gift to himself.

\---  
\---

After their discussion following Ian’s hypomanic episode and even more so after his birthday, Ian and Mickey talk constantly.

It’s not unusual, even, for Ian to text Mickey _good morning_ at just after seven, when he knows Mickey’s getting up for work.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:02 AM):** Goooood morning!

 **Mickey (7:02 AM):** What the fuck

 **Ian (7:03 AM):** I’ve been awake since 5:30 and have already had a Red Bull and some coffee, so you’re gonna have to deal with me.

 **Ian (7:03 AM):** You’re lucky I waited until 7 to text you.

 **Mickey (7:04 AM):** Woulda called in a hit on your ass if you didn’t

 **Ian (7:04 AM):** Thanks, Mickey. Nice talking to you, too.

 **Mickey (7:04 AM):** Fuck off 🖕

\------------------------

and 

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:08 AM):** You’re not allowed to call me after midnight ever again. I’m fucking exhausted.

 **Mickey (7:12 AM):** Welcome to my world, motherfucker

 **Mickey (7:12 AM):** I get like on average 5 hours of sleep because of you on a nightly fuckin basis

 **Ian (7:13 AM):** 😏

\------------------------

and very occasionally

\------------------------

 **Mickey (6:58 AM):** Good 

**Mickey (6:59 AM):** Fucking

 **Mickey (7:00 AM):** Morning

 **Mickey (7:01 AM):** Motherfucker

 **Mickey (7:02 AM):** !!!!!!!!

 **Ian (7:02 AM):** Noooooo!

 **Ian (7:02 AM):** You’re so mean!

 **Ian (7:02 AM):** Fucking evil!

 **Ian (7:03 AM):** No fair. I NEVER text you early on your days off!

 **Mickey (7:04 AM):** Yeah yeah

 **Mickey (7:04 AM):** Go back to sleep

 **Ian (7:05 AM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

\------------------------

They talk on the phone almost every single night--for over an hour sometimes--about everything and nothing. They argue. They discuss work. Ian tells Mickey about family drama, and Mickey tells him funny Milkovich shit from when he was a teenager--about drug run close calls, stolen credit cards, midnight joyrides and evading cops.

They get tired together, and their voices get soft toward the end, as they’re saying goodnight.

“Night, Mickey.”

“Night, Sleepy.”

“If I’m Sleepy, you’re Grumpy.”

“Changed my mind. You’re Dopey.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet. You’re making me Bashful.”

“Holy shit! I hate you.”

“Mmhm. Glad I make you Happy. Otherwise, I might need to call the Doc.”

“ _Chh_. Cheeseball motherfucker.”

“Cue heart-eyes emoji.”

“Dumbass. Go to sleep.”

“‘kay. You too.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Night, Mick.”

“Mm. Night, Sneezy.”

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:21 AM):** 😍

\------------------------

It feels romantic. 

Ian doesn’t know that it is. He’s never had a really close friend that wasn’t his brother, so he doesn’t know if this kind of banter is normal or not.

Do regular gay male best friends speak like this? Do they call each other at night from their beds? Do they laugh and whisper, argue and joke with each other in the dark?

To top off this confusion, Ian’s never had a romantic relationship with a guy his age, so he’s not sure he would even know what to look for.

He doesn’t know how any of this works.

All he knows is that it just keeps getting worse and worse in the best possible way.

\---  
\---

He’s just in from Kev’s gym on Saturday night, sweaty and red-faced. Ian’s been working out more often--doing some boxing, lifting weights. Now that it’s warmer, he’s also taken to jogging whenever he can--to the pharmacy, to the gym, to get take-out--in addition to his six-mile morning jogs, which he takes on days that he’s off work.

It’s starting to feel good again, the fitness motivation building. 

Stretching, he strips off his sweaty clothes, tosses them somewhere in the vicinity of his laundry basket, and heads to the bathroom to run a bath.

Before the water rises too high, he checks the adhesive of the duct tape he’s placed over the overflow drain, as the old-ass thing always causes water to somehow leak out all over the floor if he doesn’t. It’s fine. Could use another layer, but it’ll do for now.

He wanders back into his bedroom, grabs his phone, then sets it on the ledge of the tub as he climbs in, having to _slooowly_ , slowly lower himself into the hot-as-he-can-stand-it water.

Ian’s not a bath guy, usually preferring showers, but he thinks he’s overworked his muscles today, and he needs something a little more relaxing.

With a pleased sigh, he stretches out, toes flat against the front of the tub, feet to either side of the overflow drain, and leans back. He stares down the length of this body--at his taut stomach, his dick, which floats just a bit in the water, and his black, fucked up toenail, the unfortunate result of dropping a can of chicken soup on it the week before. 

And okay, sure. Maybe he’ll take some nudes to send to Mickey later. He might as well.

He’s heat-flushed, and his dick looks kinda good in the water. It’s a bit plump and pink, and his damp pubic hair is maybe a little sexy if you squint.

He grabs his phone and takes a few photos--a couple chest-up shots and one of his hand holding up his dick. 

Afterward, he places his phone once more on the tub ledge and stretches back out. Closes his eyes. Idly wonders if Mickey jerks off to his dick pics. Soaks.

He dozes for a few minutes, losing himself to the muscle-loosening heat, and when he wakes, it’s to the dinging bell of his text alert.

He snatches up his phone.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:13 PM):** So do you like make out with your clients or whatever

\------------------------

It’s random, and Ian can’t help but chuckle at it, wondering why the fuck Mickey’s asking him something like that completely unprompted.

But then he considers, well, Mickey’s asking him about _making out_. Is he thinking about making out?

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:15 PM):** Sometimes. Why?

\------------------------

Rarely, he should say. Because it is. He won’t turn it down on most occasions, but he prefers not to mention it, and he never initiates.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:16 PM):** I dunno, just seems kinda gross I guess.

 **Mickey (8:17 PM):** Since you mostly top I can get the fucking thing but like why would you want some wrinkly old married dude's tongue down your throat

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** 😂 Why are you even thinking about this?

 **Mickey (8:18 PM):** Shut up

 **Ian (8:18 PM):** And okay, this may be really douchey of me, but if I'm not remotely attracted to them, I usually tell them I don't kiss.

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** You'd honestly be surprised at how little the clients I meet up with actually want that, though. I think since a lot of them are in relationships, they consider kissing on the mouth cheating. Mostly they either want a pretty standard doggy-style fuck or they want to blow me before I jerk them off.

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** Got it

 **Ian (8:20 PM):** It's been a while since I've kissed a client.

\------------------------

It’s been a while since he’s kissed _anyone_ , really. 

He thinks it was maybe the guy at the club he hooked up with for a quick, dirty fuck in the bathroom on New Year’s Eve. They’d kissed hard for a minute before Ian’d turned him around and started tugging at his belt loops.

He’s kissed several guys, but it’s never been anything soft and sweet. The shit with Kash, yeah, but that was kinda all-around fucked up.

As Ian waits and waits for Mickey to text him back, he thinks about kissing Mickey. He thinks he’d maybe want it to be soft and sweet, at least at first.

He wonders how many people Mickey’s kissed.

Has he ever kissed a guy?

If or when--when, please, please when--they have sex, Ian’ll be his first, at least with a man. He about loses his mind wondering if it’s remotely possible he could be his first kiss, too.

Holy shit. That thought makes his belly twist like nothing he’s ever felt before. Fucking butterflies.

He takes a deep breath.

 _Be cool_.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** That answer your question? 🤨

 **Mickey (8:26 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (8:26 PM):** What are you doing?

\------------------------

A minute later, Ian receives a photo of a plate of Pizza Rolls.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:28 PM):** Nice.

 **Mickey (8:28 PM):** Why? What are you doing

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** Having a post-workout soak. 💪

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** And it's reeeeal sexy 'cause I literally had to duct-tape the overflow drain because it's fucked up and if any water gets in it the tub leaks all over the floor.

 **Mickey (8:30 PM):** Hot

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** 🔥🔥

\------------------------

Speaking of. Ian smirks and scratches idly at his chest.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** You cool with a couple pictures?

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** Of me, not the duct-tape.

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** But I'll send a picture of that too if you really wanna get your motor running.

\------------------------

Ian waits. There’s always a wait after he asks. 

Sometimes it’s thirty seconds, sometimes it’s a minute. Sometimes it’s longer. 

He wonders if they’ll ever get to a point where Mickey straight-up _asks_ him for nudes. Ian can’t even imagine it.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:32 PM):** Why not

 **Ian (8:32 PM):** 😏

\------------------------

Ian looks over his pictures from earlier, then takes another of his feet--complete with the black toenail--on either side of the duct-taped overflow drain.

He adds four total photos to a message and sends it to Mickey.

Sets down his phone. Rubs at his belly.

What if Mickey _does_ jerk off to them?

He _has_ to. Like, that shouldn’t even be a question, right? You don’t send dick pics to another guy just so they can give them a cursory, appreciative glance. You send dick pics so they can masturbate to them.

Ian’s mind wanders to thoughts of Mickey getting himself off. He’s never seen his dick, but he’s seen him in slim-fit boxers.

He gets his phone once more and swipes through his camera roll for the one he’s thinking of.

Mickey’d sent it the week prior. He’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, tiny navy shorts stretched across his thighs and by happenstance, sort of showing--more than he’s ever shown before--the soft bulge at his crotch.

It’s a mirror shot, Mickey having apparently moved the mirror off the back of his door and positioned it across from the bed, and he’s smiling in a silly, grimacing way, his eyebrows up in v-shaped points. His position makes his belly have a tiny little scrunchy roll, and that might just be Ian’s favorite part.

He puts his hand on his dick and idly drags his fist up and down, mostly just feeling at his skin. He imagines the Mickey in that photo sticking his hand down his shorts, imagines that tiny belly roll and his face scrunched in a happy little expression of pleasure and his wrist working slowly, slowly, as he touches himself.

Ian inhales, closing his eyes. Okay. _Okay_. He blows out a breath.

Yeah. Fuck.

His casual touching and thinking turns to genuine jerking off after a minute. He tightens his fist, gets his other hand on his stomach and rubs at himself as he strokes. Breathes deep. Hard.

And he’s just about to lean back more, maybe all the way onto his back, maybe getting his knees up so he can lay flat in the bath water, when his phone chimes, shocking him into an almost violent jolt.

Shit. _Shit_.

He sits up straight, gets his hand off his dick, and grabs up his phone, heart hammering.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** Why's your toenail fucked up

\------------------------

Ian laughs, relaxing back against the tub wall. He shouldn’t have expected anything else but a wry comment.

Fuck, he likes him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:41 PM):** You say such sweet things.

 **Ian (8:41 PM):** Subungual hematoma from dropping a soup can on it. Shut up in advance. 🖕

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** The fuck is that

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** Blood under the nail, basically. It's probably gonna fall off.

 **Mickey (8:42 PM):** You're right, that did get my motor running

\------------------------

 _Glad I can make you horny_ 😏, he types, before erasing the text and sending only the emoji.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** 😏

\------------------------

Maybe the horny thing was too much, but he still feels like pushing.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** So, what'd you think about the others?

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** Man, don't ask me shit like that

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** I'll just assume that's a 10/10.

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** Assume whatever you want, asshole

 **Ian (8:45 PM):** 11/10 again? Damn.

 **Mickey (8:45 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Ian casually peers down at himself--at his mostly-hard dick lying back and to the side against his lower-belly. He places his hand on it and gives it one stroke. Two.

Considers.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** If you're interested, I have another that I can send you.

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** It's a little more sexual than what I normally send, but it's nothing extreme. Want it?

\------------------------

Fuck.

As he waits for Mickey to give his consent, he opens up the camera and takes a few shots of his dick. Crops and flips the best one so he’s looking his best.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:49 PM):** Do whatever you want

\------------------------

Ian can’t help but feel a little nervous as he attaches the photo.

He hesitates before tapping send, stomach in knots but undercut with simmering arousal at the thought of Mickey seeing his erection.

Holy fuck.

He sends it. Holds his breath.

And obviously, he’s not expecting Mickey to reply right away. He sets his phone back on the tub ledge, leans back, and gets his hand once more on his cock.

His nerves keep him from reaching a point where he can come, but he relaxes into the warmth of the water and keeps himself at a steady hardness, running his fingers over his belly, his thighs, through his water-wet pubes and across the tip of his dick.

What is Mickey _doing_ right now?

Is he like, eating his Pizza Rolls and looking at Ian’s dick? The thought makes Ian laugh, and before he knows it, he’s let himself slide all the way backward in the water, knees drawing up, dunking his head under.

He holds his breath for as long as he can, and when the bubbles start to erupt from his nostrils, he sits back up, gasping, and shakes the water out of his hair. Wipes his eyes.

Grins.

Fucking dumbass.

He wipes his hands off on the shower curtain and grabs his phone.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:58 PM):** 👍 or 👎?

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** 👍

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

 _God_ , he likes him so much. He’s falling so fucking hard. He wants to text him

_I know this is insane, so I’m sorry, but I’m about 75% sure I’m in love with you._

and

_I’m in the bath right now, and all I can think about is you riding me. I’d make it so good for you._

and

_I’m getting romantic vibes from our conversations. What say you?_

and especially

_If we were together right now, would you let me kiss you?_

Shit.

Ian pulls up his Mickey pictures and swipes through a couple as he gets his hand back on himself.

Mickey _riding him_. Them just sitting up in the bath, Mickey’s knees on either side, fuckin’...bubbles up to their waists and Ian dragging his nails up and down Mickey’s back.

He’d suck his neck. Bite his shoulder. Kiss his lips and do his best to draw as many pleasure groans out of him as he could. _God_ , he wants to make him feel so good. Wants to lick his skin and hug him to his chest. Squeeze him. Make him come.

Ian shuts his eyes and drops his phone off the side of the tub onto the bathmat. He touches his nipples with his left hand as he gets himself off, and when he comes in three pulses up his belly, he whispers, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ and lets himself slide back into the water again, knees coming up, water covering his hair and his ears.

Shit. Holy shit.

He sighs and scoots back up a little so his head’s no longer partially submerged. Rubs at his belly and the head of his cock, which is slick-slimy with the bit of semen mixing with the bathwater. 

He knows--more than ever, now--that he’s utterly and completely done-for.

\---

He’s so done-for, in fact, that he calls Mickey barely half an hour after their last text. 

There’s no reason at all for it--there’s not even an excuse he can make--and for nearly an hour, they talk aimlessly about random shit while Mickey cleans his bedroom and gathers up his laundry and Ian makes himself pasta salad from a box.

Mickey seems distracted throughout much of their conversation, and Ian knows he’s busy. Knows he should probably get the fuck off the phone, leave him alone, make his Caesar pasta shit and eat it like a reasonable human being who isn’t drowning in burgeoning love.

He _knows_ this. 

But he still says, munching on a handful of Ruffles as he waits for his pasta to boil, “Just FYI…”

There’s a staticky little scrambly sound, like Mickey’s been ripped from a daydream.

“What?” 

Ian blows out a breath. “ _FYI_ , I'm most likely gonna need dinner help sometime next week, so stayed tuned, bitch.”

Mickey snorts. “I thought you were an adult now.”

“I'm most likely gonna need help boiling pasta or something. It's very difficult.” He smirks, eyeing his currently boiling pasta.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” Mickey replies, voice light, amused. “Difficult, huh?”

Ian chuckles and then proceeds to pull out his utensil drawer for a wooden spoon. He stirs his pasta. “FaceTime dinner? Minus the cat stroking?”

“Thought I fuckin' told you not to talk about me strokin' my cat.”

“Petting your pussy, then.”

Mickey groans. “You can fuck off with that shit.”

Ian laughs. _God_ , he likes him so much. So, so fucking much. 

“So,” he says once settled, swiping his hand over his mouth in an effort to rub away his grin--to control himself. “FaceTime this week? You're gonna eat, too.”

There’s the staticky puff of a blown-out breath. “Fine.”

Ian smiles. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

There’s a moment of comfortable silence. Ian stirs his pasta again, watching the fusilli spin lazily around the pot.

“Hey,” he finally says, setting down the spoon and leaning back against the counter by the stove.

“Mm?”

Ian purses his lips. Ponders. And well, he should probably say goodnight. Mickey’s got stuff to do, and Ian’s been monopolizing his time for the past two hours. 

“I’ll let you go,” he murmurs.

Mickey’s quiet for a minute before replying with a soft, “‘kay.”

“Will you send me a picture tonight?”

Mickey hums. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“ _Chh_. Yeah, whatever.”

Ian smiles, heart hammering. 

“What do you do with all the pictures of me?” Mickey asks, tone of voice tilting up toward silly. “Prob’ly print ‘em out and tape ‘em up on your wall like a serial killer.”

“Fuck. How’d you know?”

“You seem the type.”

“Do I, now?” Ian smiles--wider and wider as he hears the huffs of Mickey’s breathy laughter.

“Also,” Mickey continues, “it’s what I do with yours, so.”

“So you’ve got like pictures of my dick taped up on your bedroom wall?”

“Yeah. Is that weird?”

“Mm. A little.” Ian bites his lip and shuffles his bare feet against the floorboards. Takes a deep steadying breath and says, “But I like you, so I’ll allow it.”

Mickey’s quiet, and for a moment, Ian panics, fearing he’s overstepped. It’s one thing to say _I like you so much_ via text. It’s another to say it out loud.

But then there’s a soft _chhh_ , and Mickey murmurs, “Freak.”

“I’m not the one with dick pics on my wall.”

“‘cause I haven’t sent you any.”

 _Wanna change that?_ Ian almost asks--poises his mouth to do it, even. He doesn’t. Instead, he laughs and says, “Shirtless pics, though. I have an entire wall dedicated to your chest.”

“Fuckhead.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re ‘bout to send me a fuckin’ heart-eyes emoji, aren’t you?”

Ian smiles, pulls the phone away from his ear, and sends him one.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:21 PM):** 😍

 **Mickey (10:21 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Chuckling, Ian checks his noodles, gives them one more stir, and switches off the stovetop. 

It’s stupid, he knows, but he feels like he has the beginnings of what might be a boyfriend, and he can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride bubbling up in his chest and erupting as a goofy grin.

“Okay,” he says, trying to smother it--hold it back. “I do actually plan to let you go.”

“Got a client, or…?”

“Nah. Had some texting stuff earlier.” Ian swallows and reaches up to get the colander from the cabinet above the stove. “Just figured I’d let ya go so you can finish up your laundry.”

Mickey _hmm_ s--soft, like he’s thinking. And there’s a quick little intake of breath like he’s about to speak, but it’s cut off before a word is able to form.

After a minute, he finally says, “‘kay, dickhead.” Ian hears an affectionate smile in his voice, and a warmth sizzles just beneath his skin.

 _What if I told you I wanted to kiss you?_ , Ian wonders, rubbing his finger back and forth along the side of his phone.

\---

They say their goodbyes, and after straining his pasta, mixing it in a bowl with the little packet of dried herbs, Italian dressing, and seasonings, Ian makes himself a plate and sits down at the kitchen table.

He eats his late dinner and drinks a pineapple Fanta, and all the while, opens up his banking app on his phone and checks his savings. Makes calculations.

He doesn’t have a whole lot of Mickey’s money, really, the vast majority of it lining the pockets of the kestrel CEO. But he hasn’t spent a cent of what he’s made off him, all his kestrel funds going straight to his savings account every paycheck.

He can give it back-- _will_ give it back whenever he figures out how the hell he’s supposed to tell his client he’s overwhelmed by feelings for him. Whenever he figures out how the hell he’s supposed to ask him to cancel his subscription without coming across as a total besotted idiot and risking his current happiness on the chance that Mickey’s truly into him.

Ian puts it at about 75% in his favor. It’s not enough. It makes his stomach hurt to think about telling him he’s into him.

Romantically. Not in a client way. Not in just a sex way. 

In the way that makes him want Mickey’s arms around him when he’s not feeling well. In the way that makes him want to smooth back Mickey’s hair and kiss the tip of his nose. In the way that makes him want to get Mickey in his Real Sex Only bed, under his sheets--makes him want to get on him and inside him and feel him around him when he comes.

It’s a big feeling. Ian doesn’t know how to handle it all.

He finishes up his dinner, clears the dishes, puts away the leftovers, and takes his meds with the remainder of his Fanta.

\---

Mickey’s picture comes in when he’s getting ready for bed at just after eleven.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:09 PM):** For your wall

\------------------------

he’s sent with it, and Ian has to lean over the sink for a second, grinning down at the running water as he grips his toothbrush between his back molars.

It’s a full-body mirror photo, and Mickey’s standing in just a pair of light blue slim-fit boxer shorts. He’s posing--his left arm out and flexed, face in a comical, Strong Man grimace--and Ian loves it so much that he holds down his finger on the photo and selects the heart.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:10 PM):** Perfect.

\------------------------

He pulls out his toothbrush and spits, rinses his mouth.

After dropping the toothbrush in the cup by the sink, Ian eyes himself in the mirror. And what the hell.

He replicates Mickey’s pose, snaps a photo, and sends it.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:13 PM):** For yours.

 **Mickey (11:14 PM):** Gettin the tape now

 **Ian (11:14 PM):** Enjoy. 😎

 **Mickey (11:14 PM):** 💪 Night

 **Ian (11:15 PM):** 💪 Night, Mickey.

\------------------------

Heart-eyes.

\---  
\---

Ian doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to hide it. He doesn’t know if he _should_ hide it. All he knows is that inside of him is a flood of want and he feels that if he doesn’t let it out somehow--verbally, physically, through a fucking _text_ \--he’ll explode.

It’s torture, really, talking to Mickey every day and every night and pretending like he’s just having casual fun. He feels like a madman, like ever since Mara gave him official permission to fall in love, he’s opened the metaphorical floodgates and turned into a body of swiftly moving water.

She’s been emailing him once a week, checking in, and he’s been too embarrassed to tell her he actually isn’t sure if his meds are working well or not because he’s lost his goddamn mind over a fuckin’ boy.

He’s fine, he thinks. The racing thoughts have abated, as has the sleeplessness and the general itchy feeling beneath his skin. But it seems like all of that has been replaced with the most ridiculous amount of erections, romantic Spotify playlists, daydreams, and almost-sent texts.

He’s back to being a silly, sappy little teenager with a crush--only worse, somehow, as there _could_ be mutual feelings here, and it feels like he’s constantly two steps away from having his first true boyfriend.

The thought that his daydreams might actually come to fruition makes everything simultaneously better and worse. _Maybe he **will** get to kiss Mickey one day_ immediately turns into _Holy shit. Mickey._

Ian tries to breathe through it. Tries to enjoy it. He thinks of Mara’s words

_The happiness you feel when you’re falling is one of the best things in the world._

and trusts that he’s normal, that he’s feeling things how he should, how people do when they’ve met someone special.

He wonders how Mickey’s feeling. It settles as a small ache in his chest when he considers Mickey simply going about his daily life, not nearly as affected as Ian. He thinks it very well could be the case, and it gives him a surge of sadness, of worry to the point that he finds he has to distract himself with other things.

But still. There’s very little better than moments when Mickey texts or calls him out the blue, something he’s started doing much more frequently over the past couple weeks. If his little wonderings bring him down, text alerts in the middle of the day do nothing but bring him up.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:33 PM):** Sup

\------------------------

Ian’s at work on Wednesday, wasting time between rounds of Yahtzee with Ellie and Jake as they wait around for a call. He’s tucked back in the break room armchair, sipping a bottle of water, when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:34 PM):** Hey

 **Mickey (1:34 PM):** Just got to smack around a guy tryna steal a fuckin fleshlight

 **Ian (1:35 PM):** 😂 Poor dude.

 **Ian (1:35 PM):** To be fair, they cost a lot of money for what they are.

 **Mickey (1:36 PM):** Did you steal yours

\------------------------

Ian runs a hand over his face, having forgotten Mickey’d seen his in the background of one of his bathroom mirror photos.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:36 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (1:36 PM):** Bought mine with hard-earned money. 😉

 **Mickey (1:37 PM):** Is that a fuckin pun

 **Ian (1:37 PM):** Maybe.

 **Mickey (1:37 PM):** You suck

 **Ian (1:38 PM):** 😎

\------------------------

That’s all there is to it, and Ian is left smiling for hours, thinking about how Mickey had taken five minutes out of his work day just to tell him that.

“Awww, look at Ian,” Ellie had commented loudly to Jake as Ian had put his phone back in his pocket. “Little blushy cheekies.” She’d moved toward him with her fingers poised like she was going to pinch his cheeks.

He’d squirmed away and grumbled, embarrassed, “Shut up, shut up! Start another round.”

“Awwww.”

“Ian’s gettin’ that diiick, Ian’s gettin’ that diiick,” Jake had sung, bouncing in his seat, and Ian had flipped him off before tossing his empty water bottle at his head.

They suck so much, but Ian has to admit that it does feel kinda good to not deny that he’s talking to a guy he likes. It makes the entire situation feel _real_ \--not just the silly daydream of a teenager in love.

\---  
\---

Ian pulls up the calendar app on his phone the next morning and counts the days since Saturday.

He’s been holding off as long as possible on their FaceTime dinner in an effort to not come across as a desperate weirdo. It’s been five days now, and that’s absolutely sufficient, he decides, climbing out of bed and heading to the bathroom to get ready for work.

He’s well aware that FaceTime in 2020 isn’t much different from a phone call. You don’t necessarily need to _schedule_ calls or _worry_ over them, especially with people you know well. But as much as he loves to push, Ian doesn’t want to make Mickey feel as if he’s constantly chasing him down, getting in his business, abusing escort-client relations in the event that Mickey views Ian as nothing more than an entertaining service.

So he waits, and he plans, and he tries to come across as reasonable as possible in an effort to

_Be cool. Be cool._

\---

On kestrel, Ian blocks off the night for anything other than texting. He then waits until seven to message Mickey, wanting it to seem spontaneous--wanting to come across as unbothered, casual, just a regular guy asking to hang out.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:03 PM):** Teach me how to boil water.

\------------------------

he texts, standing like a nervous little dumbass in the middle of the kitchen.

He’s dressed in gray sweats and a white tank top, doing his level best to appear carefree and normal.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (7:04 PM):** You're an actual dumbfuck if you can't boil water bitch

\------------------------

Ian takes a deep breath.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:04 PM):** 😏 You free?

\------------------------

It’s a couple minutes before Mickey responds, and Ian fears it’s a bad time.

 _If not, it’s cool._ he types. Hesitates.

Mickey texts him back before he can send it.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (7:06 PM):** I’m free, fuckhead

\------------------------

Ian starts up the FaceTime call the second the message comes through.

 _Be cool_.

\---

Mickey lets it ring three times before answering, but when he does, Ian’s heart grows three sizes like the goddamn Grinch. He bends, torso crumpling at Mickey’s moving self, dressed in a black tank top, his hair mussed and eyes pretty.

“Hey, hey,” Ian says, working through the breath caught in his throat.

Mickey’s eyebrows quirk--the faintest little twitch--before his lips upturn in a small smile. “Hey.”

Ian uses a napkin holder to prop up his phone on the counter and then--because sorry, so sorry, he absolutely can’t help it--he leans over, elbows to the countertop, and just stares at Mickey because it’s all he wants to do.

Mickey looks at him like he’s nuts for the briefest of moments before relaxing into it, his _what the fuck_ raised eyebrows lowering, the corners of his mouth softening. He stares back, and Ian feels something in it, even though he’s not sure he’s supposed to.

Is there something there?

He inhales slowly, deeply. Exhales.

“So,” he says after a minute, scratching his chin, scritching through the day-old stubble. “I'm making spaghetti. What's on the menu for you?”

Mickey twists up his mouth, thinking, before seemingly deciding on something. Ian watches as he props up his phone on his own counter and then walks off out of view of the camera.

He’s got on jeans, and the back hem of his top’s tucked in just the slightest bit--by accident, like he’d put his shirt on before his jeans--giving Ian a brief view of his ass as he walks away.

 _God_ , he’s cute. Everything about him. His waist looks tiny in the black tank top, and Ian wonders idly what it’d be like to scoop him up.

When Mickey returns, he’s holding a Stouffer’s box displaying some sort of chicken and rice bake, and all Ian can say is, “Y’know, I could make fun of your food choices all day. You eat like a college kid. Or a stoner with those fuckin' Pizza Rolls.”

Mickey lowers his eyebrows and presses his lips together in an expression of grumpy annoyance before countering with, “At least it's real food, asshole.”

Ian holds up air quotes. “'Real.' 'Food.'”

Mickey flips him off and starts tearing into the box like a kid on Christmas morning.

Cute dumbass. Ian leans further on one elbow, propping his chin up on his hand, and watches him take out the little black tray and stab holes in the plastic covering with a fucking switchblade he whips from his pocket.

When Mickey catches him looking and raises an eyebrow, Ian _tttch_ s and steps away, standing straight and stretching. He goes to gather his own cooking materials.

Mickey complains about the messiness of his cabinets, which is fair. Ian’s not big on organizing shit he doesn’t care about--and garage sale pots and pans aren’t his favorite possessions--but he usually knows where everything is.

He just grumbles at Mickey in response and suggests he show him around his apartment if he’s so neat and tidy, himself.

Ian’s a little surprised when Mickey doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. He simply shrugs, snatches up his phone, and proceeds to carry Ian around to the various rooms.

He’s seen bits and pieces of most of them in the background of Mickey’s pictures, but it’s fun getting the full image--seeing all his sweet little knick-knacks, his second-hand furniture, Jovi curled up on the recliner, and small glimpses into Mickey’s life that Ian hasn’t seen before. The laptop on the couch. The couple pieces of opened mail on the coffee table. The XBox One tucked onto the shelf beneath his TV.

Mickey then takes Ian into the bathroom, which is absolutely littered with random stuff--towels on the floor, various bottles around the sink. It makes Ian smirk to think about Mickey complaining about his cabinets, and he gives him a look when Mickey hem-haws and, as if suddenly realizing his bathroom’s a mess, quickly transitions out of it.

The final destination is Mickey’s bedroom.

He doesn’t really attempt to show Ian around, and instead, simply carries the phone with him as he heads over to his bed and sits down.

From what Ian can see, it isn’t decorated. There’s a nice, wooden headboard implying a solidly-built bed. A blue comforter. A nightstand with a tiny red lamp that looks like it once belonged as part of a child’s bedroom set.

Ian smiles, watching Mickey, who looks a little nervous, his face somehow both soft and tense, eyes darting a bit as if waiting for assessment.

He stirs his pasta and, doing his best to sound affectionate, murmurs, “So, can I just say that your place is great, and I like it a lot, but _bitch_ , you can never say another thing about me being messy.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, voice and face suddenly bright. He flips Ian off and grins, showing his straight white teeth, and drops backward on the bed.

Ian’s belly gives a swoop at it--at the bounce of his hair when he falls, at the part of his lips, the blue of his eyes in the shine of the overhead light.

He watches him, letting his spaghetti noodles stick together from lack of stirring. Roams his eyes all along his face. In the light, he can see the soft fan of his eyelashes, the tiny stray hairs along the arch of his brow, and the dusting of freckles along his rosy, flushed cheeks and nose.

And this is it, really. This is exactly what Ian wants. He wants to lean in and touch his mouth to Mickey’s lips. Breathe the breath straight from his lungs. Tap their noses together.

He’s beautiful in every way.

Ian lets a slow stream of air seep out through pursed lips, eyes softening. Heart drumming.

“Blue-Eyes,” he murmurs, unable to hold back the complete and utter adoration there. Not even wanting to.

He smiles and goes back to stirring.

\---

Once their food is done, the two of them sit down at their respective kitchen tables and eat together, phones propped up and angled, giving each other waist-up views.

It’s the first time Ian’s seen Mickey consume actual food on a plate with a fork, and he can’t help but watch him--probably awkwardly--as they eat and chat.

Mickey eats quickly, and sometimes he holds his fork like a shovel and sometimes properly, and sometimes he chews with his mouth a little open but most of the time not, the whole experience coming across as if he’s being his normal, casual self one minute and then, remembering, tries his best to be polite.

Ian slurps his spaghetti, and it’s not sexy, but whatever. Mickey tells him to shut up and eat his noodles, and he smiles at him and does just that.

\---

They talk about work, and Ian, after taking a long drink off his glass of iced tap water, asks, “So like, what’s your favorite thing you get to do? Besides tackling guys stealing sex toys.”

Mickey scoffs and drags his fork through his plate, making lines in his rice. “Midnight movie premieres are kinda fun. Lotsa little nerdy fuckers dressed up. Non-threatening. Like, dudes in fuckin’ stormtrooper outfits tryna cut line and take pictures with props and shit.” He takes a bite, chews for a minute, and then seemingly gives up on being polite and continues, mouth full, “Chased somebody runnin’ off with a cardboard cut-out.” He shrugs. “Sometimes get to watch the movies for free.”

“Gotta hook me up. Next Marvel movie?”

Mickey flushes--cheeks immediately going red like a dye pack’s been popped. He takes a sip of his beer, sets down his bottle, then repeats the action, clearly nervous.

Was that wrong to say? Was it too real? Ian huffs a breath and idly taps the tines of his fork against the side of his bowl of spaghetti.

“Maybe,” Mickey finally replies, shrugging casually.

It was the implication that they’d meet up, Ian decides, twirling his fork in his bowl. And he gets it. He does. Mickey’s not ready for it yet, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

“Didn’t pay for a single movie ticket ‘til I was like fifteen,” Ian says, changing the subject. “Lip used to buy one and then would let me in through the fire escape near the bathrooms.” He smirks, bringing his fork to his mouth and shoveling in a mouthful of spaghetti. He chews. Swallows. “Had to stop doin’ it when I got older and less cute. Too obvious.”

“Fuck,” Mickey exclaims, easily taking the subject-changing bait. “Don’t think I _ever_ paid for a ticket, man. Haven’t been to the movies outside ‘a work in like five years, but I never gave a fuck about payin’ back then. You just gotta act like you know what you’re doin’--ain’t nobody gonna ask questions.” 

He takes a bite of rice and, with his mouth full in a way that makes Ian smile because he’s dropping his manners, adds, “It’s all teenagers runnin’ the joint, anyway. They don’t give a fuck about people sneakin’ in.”

“Rebel, rebel.” Ian bounces his eyebrows at him. “I like it.”

Mickey bites the inside of his cheek, and Ian’s heart bursts into butterflies at the flush that deepens along his neck and at the very obvious fact that he’s holding back a smile.

Cute motherfucker. Holy shit.

\---

The movie talk turns to _Star Wars_ talk, which turns to a silly play-argument.

“You're an asshole!” Ian yells, mouth half-chewed noodle-filled and not giving a fuck.

“You don't even know what you're fuckin' talkin' about.”

“How many _Star Wars_ movies have you seen, bitch?”

“All of them. Bitch.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Well, too fuckin' bad.” Mickey takes a drink of his beer and flips Ian off.

And for a second, Ian doesn’t know whether to keep up the grumpy act or move on. Both are tempting.

But when he catches a glimpse of the twitch at the corner of Mickey’s mouth and the tiny bend in his brow, he suddenly can do nothing but just stop and smile at him, face splitting with it. Heart singing. Mickey fucking Milkovich.

“Dick,” Mickey says then, voice breathy with a huff of laughter.

Heart-eyes.

Ian rubs his hands over his face and thinks Mickey just might be his favorite person.

\---

They get more drinks once they’re done and migrate to somewhere a little more comfortable. Ian takes his Coke and phone and sits down in his tan recliner, popping the footrest and stretching out.

He watches Mickey settle horizontally on his couch and lean back against the armrest.

“Where’s Jovi now, Cat Dad?” Ian asks after a few minutes of comfortable silence, the two of them loosely holding their phones at an angle in which they’re at least partially visible to the other but not paying close attention to making sure they’re perfectly in view.

Ian’s got the TV on low, and he casually watches the inane reality show while he waits for Mickey to answer.

“I’m not a fuckin’ cat dad,” he grumbles after a minute, and Ian cuts his eyes to him, a smile working its way onto his face.

“I think you’re a _great_ cat dad.”

“I think you’re a dumbass.”

Ian snickers and quickly shoots him a heart-eyes emoji.

“Fucker.”

Mickey sends back a middle finger.

They smile at each other for a minute, and it feels remarkably soft, their eyes meeting and then dragging down each other’s faces in a way that makes the skin across Ian’s cheekbones heat up. 

Afraid his blush will show, he rubs his cheeks with his fist self-consciously, eyes wandering a bit before landing once more on Mickey’s face.

“Ya don’t got any clients tonight?” Mickey asks, voice gentle, like he’s nervous. He bites his bottom lip, looks away for a second, then says, “Besides me, I guess.”

There’s a little stab in Ian’s gut at that--at Mickey equating himself, however fairly, with Ian’s other clients. He wants to tell him, _You’re different, Mickey_ , but he doesn’t. Wants to tap his finger against his plush bottom lip, but he can’t.

“Blocked it off,” he answers with a shrug. “They can still text me, but I’m not doin’ cam stuff or calls.”

Mickey nods and takes a sip of his beer. Swallows in an inelegant gulp. “Got it.”

Ian watches as he continues to take slow pulls off his bottle, and a little surge of warmth begins to flood his belly when he sees something in Mickey shift, like he’s suddenly understanding that everything’s fine, everything’s great, it’s a good thing what they have going.

Mickey settles more comfortably against the armrest of the couch and touches his eyes to Ian’s. And for the next several minutes, they mostly sit in silence, looking at each other. Drinking. Turning away to briefly watch TV before making a here-and-there comment.

They talk in murmurs about random shows. Commercials. At one point, they realize they’ve got the same channel on, and they chuckle at it and show each other their TVs.

Ian leans back in his recliner, thinks about Mickey Milkovich and the gentleness of his eyes and the tiny bit of stubble along his jaw and the fact that his cheeks get blotchy when blushes. He finishes his can of Coke and feels right and whole and like Mickey’s the thing he’s been looking for his entire life.

He thinks he’s in love and he thinks Mickey might like him a little--romantic like, real like, kissing and staring and touching like.

He watches Mickey tilt his head back to chug the last inch of his beer and he thinks, maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s wrong--embarrassingly wrong, shit--but well. 

Maybe they’re on a fuckin’ date.

\---

Ian crushes his can after a couple minutes and then, with a groan, climbs out of the recliner and heads into the kitchen.

Before he throws away his trash, he props his phone back up on the napkin holder, and when he returns, he finds Mickey smiling faintly at seemingly nothing, his lips upturned. Beautiful.

Heart in his throat, Ian leans over the counter, elbows down, and looks at him. Licks his lips.

“Mickey,” he says, the air suddenly charged--electric.

Mickey’s cheeks flame up again, and shit. _Shit_. How is it possible that Mickey Milkovich, the little thug who’d come in and steal from the Kash and Grab, who was constantly suspended from school, in and out of juvie… How’s it possible that he’s so sweet and blushy?

Ian blows out a breath. Wonders how he can do this. Wonders if he should even worry about it, if he shouldn’t just go for it, spit it out, hand it over and if Mickey wants it, he can have it, and if he doesn’t, it’s fine. Ian’ll live. He will.

He scratches at his jaw. Inhales deeply to steady himself.

“So,” he says, then pauses to smile. He wanders his eyes over Mickey’s flushing face. Once more takes in his freckles and his baby blues and the little chapped patch of skin in the center of his upper lip. 

He thinks he might die, but he asks, heart beating so hard he worries Mickey can hear it

“Are we on a date right now?”

Mickey’s mouth opens, and a puff of air comes out hard enough that it makes a noise. He blinks furiously, and Ian thinks he really _might_ die now--of embarrassment, of complete and utter affection when Mickey sputters, “What the fuck, Gallagher?”

And there’s something about it that gets to him. Mickey’s breathing hard, and his neck and chest are pink, and Ian’s not wrong, he’s _not wrong_ , he’s eighty, maybe ninety percent sure.

He smiles at him.

“What?” Mickey asks, voice a gasp.

Ian considers. Studies. He presses his lips together and tries to be serious. He _tries_ , but he can’t. He can’t help it at all.

He laughs in three puffs out his nose before falling right back into his grin.

“Yeah. We're definitely on a date,” he says, and you know what?

He’s fucking going for this.

“I don't know what you're talkin' about, fuckhead,” Mickey says, climbing off the couch and heading back into the kitchen.

Heart. Fucking. Eyes.

“Mickey.”

Ian watches as Mickey, after grabbing another beer from his fridge, props up his phone on his counter and leans over, hand supporting himself against the surface of his countertop.

He one-handed unscrews the twist-top of his beer and thumbs it away. Takes a drink. “What?”

Ian takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“We met through a sex app,” he says, stomach in knots but voice as strong and steady as he can manage. “I think you can admit we're not penpals.”

He raises an eyebrow, challenging Mickey.

He might die he might die he might die. He smiles.

Mickey scoffs at him, turns away, and takes a long pull off his beer.

And fuck. Okay. _Okay_.

There is absolutely no true fight in him. Ian reads him like a book, his body language guarded, his voice grumbly, but his flush deepening by the second, his eyes cutting to Ian, to his mouth, then away, and there is no way this is happening and yet it’s so very obvious that it is.

Mickey likes him. Eighty percent. Ninety percent. The number keeps rising as the seconds pass. Ian thinks his heart might burst if he doesn’t ask

“So, what do _you_ do on dates?” 

_We’re on a fucking date, Mickey, you cute, nervous motherfucker._

Mickey scrunches up his face, forming those little crinkles between his eyebrows. “Do we really have to talk about this shit?”

Ian shrugs and heads to the fridge for another Coke. He pops the tab, takes a slurping sip, and says, voice light, “We don't _have_ to.” 

Mickey looks at him for a minute, twisting his lips up. He thumbs at his nose and then looks away and then down, and in that moment, Ian knows he’s got him.

“Never really been on one,” Mickey murmurs, soft as anything.

Ian nods at him. He gets it.

“Yeah,” he says, setting down his Coke can and propping his head up on his fist. “Me neither?” He shrugs. “Not really, at least. Not a real one. At a restaurant. With like, utensils.”

Mickey smirks. “Don't got clients takin' you out?”

“Please.” Ian rolls his eyes. “I've been to a couple wine bars. A party. I have a very specific, weirdly consistent clientele, and y'know. Most of 'em don't wanna parade me around in public for fear of us running into people they know.”

It’s fine, really. It doesn’t always feel good, but Ian gets their angle, understands what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. He doesn’t care about these clients, and he thinks he has a fairly healthy mindset of his role in any given scenario.

“But anyway,” he continues, eyes flitting to Mickey’s face and away. He feels embarrassed all of a sudden, even though it’s probably stupid. Even though he’s definitely speaking to a kindred spirit--someone with just as much dating experience as him. 

“I've never been on like, a romantic date,” he confesses. “Never done anything romantic with anybody, really. Maybe when I was a kid.” 

He studies Mickey’s face, sees something funny flash over his features before disappearing in a moment.

“I've always had sex,” he continues. “I've had lots of hookups, a couple fuck-buddies.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I've just never been in a mature, like, loving relationship. Ever.”

He rubs at his chin and thinks briefly about Kash. He’d felt it with him. Thought they were equals in a mature relationship.

Fuck.

And he understands now--at twenty-four and as someone who knows a little more about what should and shouldn’t happen--that the fact that he was having sex with a thirty-year-old when he was fifteen was gross. He gets it.

It was abuse, but the problem is that it didn’t feel like it, and he hates that he knows that he’ll go the rest of his days carrying even just the tiniest bit of sentiment toward Kash Karib.

He doesn’t know why, but he tells Mickey about him.

Mickey calls Kash a pedo and looks appalled, and yeah. That’s what he was, probably.

Ian hums and takes a drink of his Coke. “Well.” He tilts his head and shrugs. Bites his lip for a moment before saying, “Fucked an even older guy, too. Ned. A doctor.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know. I dunno. He was the father of my sister’s boyfriend, Steve.” Ian scrunches up his face. “Jimmy. JimmySteve. His real name was Jimmy, and Ned’s real name was Lloyd. I met him outside a club when I was underage.”

He tells Mickey about him, and he recognizes the moment Mickey gets lost in all the names and weird drama, but Ian smiles at the fact that he never once tells him to stop--just leans on the counter and listens.

When Ian’s done, Mickey makes a face. 

“Fuck.”

Ian chuckles because, well. Yeah. Fuck. He sniffs. “But that's like the sum total of my dating life, so.”

“Fucked up.”

Ian shrugs.

They're quiet for a while, just looking at each other and drinking. Ian thinks about how they’re having a relationship talk together. About how Mickey was a little grumbly, but he didn’t once deny that they’re on a date.

This is a date.

Ian’s first date, really. He bites his lip and looks around, and to give himself something to do, he walks away from the phone and cleans up the table, bringing his dinner dishes to the sink.

Mickey looks soft and pensive when Ian returns. He leans over, close, and watches his face.

How do you tell someone you’re into them in a romantic kinda way without sounding like a total obsessive weirdo? How do you just work that into a conversation?

He thinks Mickey likes him. He thinks Mickey knows Ian likes _him_. He thinks they know things about each other but are too afraid to say anything.

He rubs his hand over his mouth and then across his stubbly jaw.

“What?” Mickey asks, voice soft like he’s nervous. He picks at the label on his beer bottle with his thumb.

Ian watches him, and he watches him, and he wonders the thing he’s wondered before, the thing he wonders when he looks at Mickey’s lips and when he sees Mickey looking at his.

He swallows heavily and smiles. “You ever been kissed, Mickey?” he asks, and he might die, he might die, but Mickey’s flushing so, so much, and he’s so, so beautiful.

“The fuck you askin' that for?”

Ian can’t help it. He wanders his eyes all across Mickey’s face, down, down to his lips, and smiles.

He thinks his heart might burst. Boom, boom, explode. Mickey cups his hand over the bottom part of his face like he’s hiding his mouth, and Ian wants nothing more than to reach through the phone and touch him. Squeeze the back of his neck. Pull him in and touch his nose to his cheek.

God. Fuck. Mickey’s cheeks are bright red, and he’s breathing in hard puffs, and _shit_ , Ian wants to laugh. He wants to fucking laugh. He wants the release of it, the sound of it, the burst of energy and life, letting escape the bubbles of all that happiness and like and love in his belly and chest.

“You're only making it worse,” he whispers, gesturing toward Mickey, who’s so sweet and nervous Ian thinks he could float. “Like, this? Not helping.”

Mickey pulls his hand away. “What're you talking about?” 

_I’m talking about how I’m in love with you._

_I’m talking about how I think you’re beautiful._

_I’m talking about how much I want to put my mouth on yours._

“I want to kiss you,” he says, flames in his belly.

That’s it. That’s all.

\---

Mickey looks like he’s left the building in all ways but physical, his eyes glazing over and breath coming in barely anything but silent little sips. It’s the absolute cutest thing Ian’s ever seen, and he wants to take a picture, set it as his fucking lockscreen, give himself something to remember the moment by--the moment he sent Mickey Milkovich’s brain offline.

He laughs because he can’t help it, and it feels so fucking good.

“Mickey,” he chuckles.

Nothing.

“ _Mickey_.”

Mickey looks up at him then, and Ian just wants to _tease_. 

He leans a little closer and says, voice bright with laughter, “You're making it worse and worse.”

Mickey blows out a breath, and Ian bites the insides of his cheeks but does nothing to hold back his grin.

“Every fuckin' time you blush,” he says, pausing to purse his lips for a second before continuing. “It's like...” he shivers because yeah.

That’s exactly what it’s like.

Mickey takes a deep breath in and out through his nose, slow, slow, and Ian gives him time.

“What'm I supposed to say?” he finally asks, and Ian wants to tip up his chin and kiss him.

He smiles, though. Gentles him.

“You don't have to say a fuckin' thing,” he says, propping his face up on his hand and settling in to look at him.

\---

There’s nothing changing the direction of the conversation after that.

Mickey tries, walking off for a minute to putter around his kitchen and then returning with a handful of mini Reese’s Cups, which he proceeds to unwrap and munch on.

“You’re a dick, you know that?” he asks, and Ian’s glad to know he’s feeling more confident again, even if his cheeks are still red and splotchy.

Ian nods at him and gives him a silly, exaggerated _ch_ sound and wink. “Y’know what? It’s kinda like the find and replace thing on a Word document. Every time you’re mean to me, I just hear, ‘heart-eyes emoji, heart-eyes emoji, heart-eyes emoji.’”

“Fuck off.”

“Heart-eyes fuckin’ emoji.”

“I hate you.”

“Aww, Mickey.”

“I’m gonna go.”

Ian smirks at him, but even that does nothing but turn quickly into a genuine smile. “Fine. Be that way.”

They say their goodbyes, then. Ian feels drunk. He feels full of air. He feels like one of those blow-up men with sand in the bottom he used to have as a kid. Kick him, punch him, he hits the floor and comes right back up.

There’s zero doubt that Mickey knows Ian’s into him now. He _has_ to know now.

And the best thing? The best thing is that even though he was flushy and awkward about it, there was no resistance. There was no hang-up. There was no number-blocking. 

There was Mickey munching candy and saying, “You’re a dick,” knowing full fucking well that all it does is make Ian send him heart-eyes.

They like each other, don’t they? Do they?

Is Mickey having fun with his escort? Is he just enjoying the experience?

Does he _like_ him?

Ian blows out a breath and checks the time on his phone. 8:57 PM.

His first date.

Fuck.

\---

Ian spends the next hour catching up on kestrel stuff, replying to the slew of messages he’s received in the past two hours and distracting himself.

At a little after ten, he takes his meds and then finishes off the rest of the family size Ruffles bag he’s been working on for the past week while registering for a Venmo account.

He searches up Mickey’s name but doesn’t find anything. Checks his bank account. Does his calculations again.

He’s getting ahead of himself.

Literally all that happened tonight was Ian telling Mickey in a roundabout way that he’s interested in him romantically. Aside from being seemingly _okay_ with it in a completely Mickey fashion, it’s not as if Ian received any sort of confirmation of Mickey’s feelings on the matter.

Mickey didn’t tell him he likes him. Mickey didn’t do anything at all, really, other than blush and look nervous.

Ian closes out of his banking app and pulls his legs up onto the couch with him. He stretches out on his back, supporting his head on a cushion shoved up against the armrest, and bites his lip.

 _Mickey_.

He can’t help but smile, thinking about him.

He checks the time. It’s a little after ten.

Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm his nerves, Ian opens up his text thread with Mickey and types

 _You’re a good date, Milkovich. You should have them more often._ 😉

Erases it.

Types instead,

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:19 PM):** Thanks for the date (?)

\------------------------

Mickey responds almost immediately, giving Ian a bit of a shock.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:19 PM):** Yeah, yeah

 **Ian (10:19 PM):** 😊

\------------------------

Ian taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, watching the dots bounce around as Mickey types and pauses. Types and pauses.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:21 PM):** It was fun

\------------------------

Ian’s heart hammers.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:21 PM):** Yeah? Good.

\------------------------

Good. Amazing. Ian pulls the oatmeal blanket off the back of his couch and drapes it over himself, giving him something to hold against him. He feels stupid and childlike and fucking teenage-giddy.

Shit.

He’s losing it. He’s losing his mind, and whatever. It’s fine. He’s totally, completely cool with it.

He pulls up his camera roll and scrolls through the pictures he has of Mickey. He looks at his face and his wry grin and his little flop of dark hair. And he can’t help it.

He can’t fucking help it.

Without thinking twice, he swipes back over to his texts and asks, heart creeping up his throat,

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:30 PM):** Just out of curiosity... Would you have let me?

\------------------------

He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the text alert.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:32 PM):** Woulda been a little hard to do it through the phone

 **Ian (10:32 PM):** 🙄 You know what I mean.

\------------------------

Ian swallows heavily. Waits.

When the dots never show, he adds,

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:33 PM):** If we were in person, would you have let me kiss you?

\------------------------

And Ian’s fully expecting a non-answer. He’s expecting a _Shut the fuck up, Gallagher_ or a line of middle-finger emojis or a _You’re a dickhead_.

He never once expects what he receives. What he receives is

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:33 PM):** Yes.

\------------------------

Holy fuck.

Ian gasps. He feels like his lungs are being squeezed, like his heart is trying to escape his body. He clutches the blanket.

Mickey. 

_Mickey_.

He sighs. Okay. _Okay_.

Be cool.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:34 PM):** 😊

 **Ian (10:34 PM):** Goodnight, Mickey Milkovich.

 **Mickey (10:34 PM):** Night

\------------------------

And well, whatever. He might as well.

He grins as he swipes through the emoji keyboard, looking for one he’s never before sent. 

He knows Mickey’s going to hate him, but that’s part of the fun.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:34 PM):** 😘

 **Mickey (10:35 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (10:35 PM):** Ahh, the romance.

\------------------------

He expected nothing less.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:35 PM):** Go to sleep

 **Ian (10:36 PM):** I'm not tired yet.

 **Mickey (10:36 PM):** Then why'd you say goodnight

 **Ian (10:36 PM):** 'cause I wanted to be romantic, and I liked the way it sounded.

 **Mickey (10:37 PM):** Weird motherfucker

 **Ian (10:37 PM):** There you go being sweet again. 🖕

 **Mickey (10:38 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (10:38 PM):** I think we should text one day and make it a rule that we can't use that emoji.

 **Mickey (10:39 PM):** 🔫

 **Ian (10:39 PM):** The fact that it's a water pistol, though. It speaks volumes.

 **Mickey (10:39 PM):** You think you're funny

 **Ian (10:40 PM):** I think I'm hilarious. 😎

 **Mickey (10:40 PM):** 🔪

\------------------------

And the thing is, they don’t stop. At several points in their text conversation, Ian knows he should probably let Mickey go. He knows he should probably say goodnight for real and get his ass up off the couch.

But he can’t.

All he wants to do is talk to him. He wants to goof off with him, and he wants to flirt with him, and he wants to revel in the feeling of what he thinks might be going on here.

What he thinks might be going on here is that Mickey Milkovich is going to be his boyfriend one day. What he thinks might be going on here is that Ian’s in love, and Ian’s feeling everything that Mara said.

 _The happiness you feel when you’re falling is one of the best things in the world_.

Ian’s feeling one of the best things in the world.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:28 AM):** Ok, go to bed

\------------------------

They’ve been talking off-and-on for two hours. In the meantime, Ian’s watched half an episode of _The Office_ , drank a bottle of water, washed his face, and fallen in love twenty times.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:28 AM):** Sick of me?

 **Mickey (12:28 AM):** Yes

 **Ian (12:29 AM):** Damn. Well, it was fun while it lasted. 👋

 **Mickey (12:29 AM):** 🔪

 **Ian (12:30 AM):** 🔫 Pew-pew.

 **Mickey (12:30 PM):** Gallagher

 **Ian (12:30 AM):** Milkovich?

 **Mickey (12:31 AM):** I'm leaving

 **Ian (12:31 AM):** Guess I'll allow it.

 **Mickey (12:32 AM):** You ain't allowin shit

 **Ian (12:32 AM):** But I make the rules.

 **Mickey (12:33 AM):** Fuck you's what you make

 **Ian (12:33 AM):** 😉

 **Ian (12:34 AM):** But also, yes. 😂 Goodnight. We've gotta stop.

 **Mickey (12:34 AM):** Night

 **Ian (12:34 AM):** Pew-pew.

 **Mickey (12:35 AM):** 🔪

\------------------------

He’s never going to fall asleep.

Ian uses the bathroom, strips down, then goes to bed. He puts in his earbuds and pulls up Spotify, and because he’s apparently lost his mind entirely, he does a search for _Romance_ playlists. This sends him to _Love_ playlists, which sends him to _Acoustic Love_ playlists, which has him listening to music he’s never listened to in his entire life in the dark of his bedroom at one in the morning.

He listens to James Bay and Lewis Capaldi, and none of it’s his style, but if he feels like being a dumb, romantic sap right now, who cares?

Who cares at all?

He twists onto his belly and pulls up Instagram while he listens to Hozier.

The lyrics are about buried things. Two people with shit in their pasts. Two people who might not be completely normal, maybe, and who have struggles, and who aren’t even going to ask. Who are going to move past it and be together and let all the trauma and pain rest in their dust.

He adds it to his Spotify playlist.

And well, maybe it’s dumb. Maybe he shouldn’t.

But the thing is: he wants to be with Mickey Milkovich. He wants to kiss Mickey Milkovich. He wants to leave his past behind and find happiness with him.

He screenshots “Like Real People Do” on Spotify and posts it to his Instagram story, then has the chorus of the song play over it.

He considers tagging Mickey but figures it’d be too much. He considers messaging it to Mickey, instead, and figures that’d also be too much.

He posts it, and he closes out of Instagram, and he stares up at the ceiling in the dark and hopes that good things will happen to him for once.

Ian’s lived the past seven years of his life assuming they won’t. Assuming nothing but the worst because nothing but the worst has happened to him in most situations.

But here, at night, after telling Mickey he wants to kiss him, and after texting with him for two hours about everything and nothing, he allows himself to hope for the best.

\---

He drifts off at some point, lulled by the quiet and by fragile thoughts of possibility.

When his alarm goes off at six, he grabs his phone and yawns as he checks his messages.

Mandy’s onto him.

\------------------------

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
judging by the song i’m going to assume you and my brother are legit dating now

 **mandy_milk0vich**  
you don’t have to tell me, i know mickey’s private af, but i’d love for you to heavily imply it in a reply whenever you get this

\------------------------

Ian smiles but doesn’t reply. 

He checks his text from Mickey.

It’s a screenshot of his story along with

\------------------------

 **Mickey (4:14 AM):** Soft bitch

\------------------------

Heart-eyes.

Ian stretches his legs out under the covers. Inhales deeply. Exhales.

\------------------------

 **Ian (6:03 AM):** Pew.

\------------------------

he texts, hoping Mickey sees happiness in the stupid little water pistol shot.

Hoping this signifies a beginning for them--that it’s something they can look back on in a year and smile about, joke about, call each other _fuckhead_ and _dumbass_ and whisper _I hate you_ around a smiling kiss.

Ian doesn’t know much about love. At twenty-four, he’s just now starting to figure out some things about life. 

He may not know much, and he may be nothing but a ball of new hopes and first real passions and soft, unfamiliar feelings that need a place to go. But when he considers Mickey, and when he looks at his texts and remembers what they’ve talked about--all those soft confessions, all the _I’ve never_ s and the _I haven’t_ s and the _me neither_ s--all he can think is that he’s found someone to learn with. To grow with. To experience things with for the very first time.

He may not know much about love or life, but he can’t wait to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 7:  
> -Hope you enjoyed Ian's birthday. I'd completely forgotten about it when I wrote LRPD, so I'd promised to add it in here. Mickey was so incredibly nervous to make that call and leave the voicemail. He sat and talked himself into and then out of it over and over again before finally doing it. Sweetheart.
> 
> -Just a reminder that Trevor and Caleb are not a part of Ian's past in this fic. His past with Kash and Ned, however, are the same as in canon. And in re: Ian's views of Kash and Ned--in this fic, I'm trying to give Ian _some_ sense of realization of his abuse, which unfortunately, I don't think canon Ian has. With that said, he still isn't viewing these men and the relationships they had with him as detrimental to his mental and physical health, safety, and body image. He also isn't making any connections to those things and how they are directly related to his self-esteem and views of sex. He simply views them in the sense of, "Yeah, these guys were probably gross pervs, but oh well," and stops there. I don't love this, but I think it's realistic for his character.
> 
> -After HOS, we now have a visual of Ian in the bath. Thankfully, his fantasy of him and Mickey in this fic is a lot better than the reality of them trying to take a bath together. 
> 
> -And speaking of HOS and spoiler alert for LRPD/later on the fic, but we also now have canonical sound for Mickey's "I fuckin' love you," and that makes my heart go pitter-patter.
> 
> -I'm not sure where the show is going re: Franny's gender identity (especially in reference to her telling Frank she's a boy), but in all future descriptions of Franny, I am going to strive to actively make her interests be more in line with the kid we're getting to know in s11. I've realized that she would've HATED the Tinkerbell costume in the LRPD add-on chapter, for example, and while I'm not going to go back and change the costume, I'm no longer going to put her in frilly, princess-y things in any future chapter in which she appears.
> 
> Finally, I want to thank you all so incredibly much for all the love and support you've given me this year. I have been absolutely blown away by the kindness, the comments, the fanart, the messages, kudos, and hits, and I can't even explain how much it means to me that something I wrote simply for fun and as a distraction during quarantine has been loved by others. You all are incredible, and I adore you. Thank you for helping make my 2020 bearable. <333
> 
> Happy New Year.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Gray


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian didn't believe it would ever happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

When Ian was in third grade, new teeth big and white in his mouth, face littered with dark freckles, and hair a messy, frizzy red mop that got him kicks and teases, Charity Wash gave him his first kiss.

She sat beside him in class, and her hair was just as red as his and skin was just as freckled. They looked like wonder twins--two skinny Irish kids with coloring like veritable kick-me signs--and Ian couldn’t help but feel a sense of duty toward her, like being anything but kind and accommodating was going against his own.

He let her be his math partner and always wrote back to her notes. When Tyler Samuelson tried to connect the dots on the back of her neck in permanent marker or when Steven Tucker called her ugly, Ian jumped to her defense because she couldn’t help any of that stuff. She couldn’t help it any more than he could help his own hair and his own freckles. And even if calling out the bullies got Ian creamed at recess, sending him home with a black eye and split lip at the ripe old age of eight, it was okay because it felt good to be nice sometimes.

In thanks, Charity gave him pieces of her string cheese every day during lunch and followed him around the playground like a shadow, latching on to his arm and trying to hold his hand.

Ian had his own friends, of course, but no one close, always playing on the periphery of friend groups. Even though he was good at spelling and brought the other kids sneaky cigarettes and knew about sex already from his brother Lip, he was still mostly just the funny-looking ginger with constellation skin--barely any better off than Charity, and that was just because he wasn’t a girl.

So when Charity started following him around, holding his hand and smelling all sweet and soft like girls did, he felt special. He felt like a hero who’d saved the day. He was Peter Parker moonlighting as Spiderman, and she was his little Mary Jane.

He didn’t understand much--certainly not about girls--but he knew enough to know that when a girl followed you around and gave you cheese strings and passed you notes with little hearts drawn on them, you were supposed to like it.

He wasn’t sure how he felt that Tuesday afternoon when she shoved him up against the jungle gym, the bars digging into his back, and pressed an aggressive, childish kiss to his lips. 

He thought maybe it was okay, even if it _was_ weird. Maybe he thought she was kind of pretty in her own sort of girl way. Maybe he would fall in love with her one day.

He didn’t.

\---

In fifth grade, there was Carrie Yazel, with her blonde hair cut short due to a lice infestation and her scabby, skinned knees. She used to shove Ian around the playground like a ragdoll and always bested him at soccer, running fast, fast down the field and trying to trip him when he chased after her. She’d call him names but in a way that made Ian smile, and she once bit him on the shoulder while pretending to be a dog, her little teeth leaving a bruise on his skin that he stared at with curiosity in the shower.

Mostly, though, she used to sit under the jungle gym and “smoke” bubble-gum cigarettes she’d stolen from the Kwik-E Mart, the seat of her boy’s shorts getting all dirty from the ground and the whites of her ratty Converse getting coated in dust and grime.

Ian, heart full of hope, gave her a real cigarette once, having stolen it from Lip’s stash, and it made his belly swoop when Carrie swore, invited him under the jungle gym with her, and wrapped her arm around him in thanks.

She smelled like a boy--like grass stains and dirty skin and unlaundered cotton T-shirts--and her short blonde hair curled up at the edges with sweat, a bit of it sticking to her forehead in a way that made Ian want to kiss her.

“I don’t like boys,” she’d said, startling him into a jerk and a blush, heart pounding with the fear that she could somehow read his mind.

“That’s cool,” Ian had replied, shrugging. He didn’t like girls, really. Just her.

And well. He _really_ thought he might fall in love with her one day.

He didn’t.

\---

Four years later, after Justin Timberlake, after things in Ian’s life had begun to click into place in a way that felt like learning all the secrets of the big, gay universe, there was Roger Spikey.

Roger didn’t follow him around the playground or have short blonde hair or skinned knees. He was tall for his age, having hit puberty two years before everyone else, and he had three chest hairs and freckled shoulders and an unruly mop of completely average medium brown hair that allowed him to fit in anywhere. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d been having sex with the school skanks since seventh grade and apparently had what amounted to a fucking baseball bat between his legs, Roger Spikey might just have gone through life as the most average of Average Joes in the Southside, if there was such a thing.

Ian didn’t really bother with him other than casting an appreciative eye toward the bulge in his underwear when they changed into their gym clothes. Roger wasn’t particularly smart or funny. He didn’t have a model’s smile or enviably clear skin. He was just a dude with a massive dick who was reasonably nice to Ian in a way that didn’t make that much of a difference when he was a skinny ninth grader trying to find his place in the social hierarchy.

Really, even when he looks back on it now, Ian’s not sure how it happened. 

They were in the locker room after gym class, fresh out of the shower with towels around their waists. It was high school, but it was also ninth grade, and nobody was getting naked in front of anybody. The two of them were last in line for the changing rooms, all the other kids already gone, and Ian was gathering up his little pile of clothes from his locker to take with him back to the changing area. Roger was doing the same, talking idly about Molly Jefferson’s tits as if Ian gave a fuck. 

And one minute, Roger was leaning into his locker, neatly folded shorts and T-shirt gripped in his huge right palm, and the next, he had his hand on Ian’s dick, pressed against the rough, cheap fabric of the school-issued towel and rubbing up and down in a way that suggested he’d done it before.

It was Ian’s first time with anything like it, his curiosities thus far only resulting in stolen gay pornos shoved in a folder he kept tucked under his mattress. For a second, he didn’t know what to do--was frozen, heart in his throat, blood boiling and sizzling its way downward at a breathtaking speed. 

Eventually, however, he allowed himself to breathe, and with a burst of bravery he didn’t know he had him, he gave Roger a wide-eyed stare, tugged at the knot in his towel, and shoved him hard against the row of lockers, the _clang_ of his body loud in the quiet of the locker room.

It only took a minute, the two of them thrumming with teenage hormones. And when it was over and they were red-faced and awkward, wiping themselves down with their towels, Ian quickly darted in and pecked a kiss to Roger’s lips, soft like the wings of a butterfly.

He hadn’t thought about him before, but well. _Maybe_. Maybe he could grow to like him if they were gonna keep doing _this_.

And he didn’t know what he was expecting out of the kiss, but it wasn’t getting shoved roughly away, Roger’s palms clammy against Ian’s bare chest. 

“This never fuckin’ happened,” Roger warned him, voice filled with panicked desperation, and Ian winced, covering himself with his towel and feeling the hot rush of embarrassment flood his cheeks.

His first goddamn kiss with a boy.

Roger left him alone there against the lockers, mouth agape, heart still up from arousal and knees weak from orgasm.

Ian shifted. Straightened. Re-wrapped the towel around his skinny waist and tried to view it as a simple, casual bit of humping-turned-handjobs. Nothing to it. 

Only it was his first time in any sense of the word, and it was hard to be unaffected.

Ian quietly changed back into his clothes, wondering what it meant. He knew people had meaningless sex all the time. Lip had already banged four girls by the time he was Ian’s age, and he’d never had a single legit girlfriend.

Plus, it’s not like Ian was really _into_ Roger, though knowing he apparently liked dick gave him pause in a way that made him consider alternatives to that assessment.

It was stupid, he knew, but he couldn’t help but lie in bed that night, wondering if he and Roger would hook up again. Wondering if they’d one day have a good kiss. Wondering if Roger had long been harboring a crush on Ian and wanted to like, _date_ him or something. How fucking weird. How fucking, fucking weird.

Mostly, as he snuggled down into his comforter and stared up at Lip’s glow-in-the-dark stars, he wondered if he would somehow fall in love with Roger some day, this crazy twist of fate in which the goofy little JROTC ginger kid made it with a guy whose nickname was “Donkey Dick.”

And well, of course he didn’t.

\---

There was Kash next, at fifteen. Ian had his first job, was making his first real money, felt like an adult for the first time in his life. Kash was kind and gentle and whispered _beautiful, you beautiful fucking thing_ when Ian was inside him, and it made him feel good and special like nothing in the world ever did.

It was fucked up. So was Ned. So were the gray-haired grandpas with soft, wrinkled skin who liked to suck his dick, who bent over for him, who liked to take it screaming in hotel rooms while Ian’s eyes were glazed over and his heart pounded hard like it would burst at any moment. While having him do things he sometimes couldn’t remember at all the next morning.

Ian didn’t know if he’d find love. He thought he’d maybe had it with Kash for a month or two, but then there was Linda and threats and the running away thing. Then at some point, when he was tweaking like a little bitch, glitter dusting his shoulders and chest and belly waxed smooth, he thought he didn’t want love. Didn’t need it.

Then there was the whole _stealing a car and pulling a knife on the cops_ thing--the bipolar thing--and at that point, Ian mostly thought he just didn’t deserve it. Who the fuck was gonna love a guy who didn’t even know who he was from one minute to the next?

In retrospect, he thinks he spent a good seven years of his life trying to find a place where he belonged--where he was important and desirable and wanted instead of being forever the ignored middle child in the baggy, hand-me-down clothes. 

He searched and searched and searched, hoping he would find it.

He didn’t.

\---

There was kestrel. There were the men. The requests. The _lick up your cum next time, slut_ along with a twenty dollar tip. 

He searched and searched and searched.

And then.

And then.

And then there was _26/chicago/who cares._

And then there was _I like talking to you too_.

And then there was 

_**Ian (10:33 PM):** If we were in person, would you have let me kiss you?_

_**Mickey (10:33 PM):** Yes._

There was the shambles of Ian’s life beginning to be built up again. There was the solitude and the worry beginning to dissipate and a faint glimmer of hope shining through the wreckage of his past like a message, like a whisper. _Dig for me. I’m here._

There was Mickey Milkovich and his endearing grumpiness and his beautiful smile and his cat with the notched ear.

There was Ian falling in love with him.

And there was the thought that maybe, somehow, despite it all--despite everything Ian’s ever been or said or done or wanted but never gotten, hoped for but never received--

Mickey might be falling in love with him, too.

\---  
\---

The Tuesday following their first “date,” Ian has a Platinum session with a new guy named Atlas, which is a bullshit name for a bullshit person, some high roller--likely married, definitely quote-unquote, “straight.” He’s in his mid-thirties and is much shorter in person than he looked in all his profile photos, just barely reaching five-nine, if that, but carrying himself as if he’s well over six feet, an altogether average dog trying to lead the pack.

He’s objectively hot, though, and the sort of client Ian would normally be cautiously happy about getting to bang. 

Ian meets him at the hotel at a little after seven, iPad at the ready, and though Atlas talked big, sexy game through their kestrel messages, it turns out he’s mild as a kitten.

He’d ordered a fuck, and he wants it face-to-face. Ian slides into him easily and works his hips in a rhythm that always gets to the softer guys--makes them whimper, makes them squeeze their arms around Ian’s sides and come fast but in a way that feels slow, like Ian’s been in them forever.

Ian’s good at this shit. He huffs out a breath and wanders his eyes just briefly across Atlas’s face before lifting up a bit more and focusing on the scuffed headboard. Focuses on the sensation, the friction, the noise.

“Look at me,” Atlas murmurs.

Ian hums and gets his eyes back on him--watches his face screw up as he starts to really feel it, as Ian does his job, works his magic like the goddamned pro he is.

It feels good, sure, Atlas’s body tight and hot, but Ian doesn’t feel anything but physical sensation. All he sees is a sweaty forehead and an attractive face with nothing else behind it.

“Hey, hey.” Atlas moves his arms from Ian’s upper back and slides them instead around his neck. “Kiss me. Do you do that?”

Ian swallows.

Sure he does, yeah, sometimes. Or else he did. He kissed the guys he thought were hot. The ones he thought were sweet. Not too much and nothing too invasive, but sometimes it added to the experience. Sometimes it got him better tips.

Atlas is hot. Atlas is relatively sweet in a _rich boy steppin’ out_ kinda way. He’s a guy Ian would normally shrug over, say, “Yeah, okay,” and go in for the kiss.

“Nah, sorry,” he says tonight, pausing his thrusts for the briefest of moments in order to adjust the positioning of his knees pushed up behind Atlas’s thighs. “I don’t kiss.”

“That’s cool.” Atlas doesn’t look too disappointed. Good.

Ian makes a thankful sort of noise and begins moving his hips once more.

It’s stupid, really, but Ian can’t help but think, as he squeezes his eyes shut and really gives it to Atlas, sending him into a squirming, moaning mess, that kissing would somehow feel like cheating.

Fuck. It’s ridiculous. Ian knows it. He and Mickey aren’t dating, and they’re not even kissing _each other_. Not for real. Maybe alluding to kisses, yes, Ian feeling his heart in his throat as he steeled himself and said, “I want to kiss you.”

Mickey saying he’d let him.

Holy shit.

Ian finishes up his duty, pulls out toward the end and gets Atlas off with his hand, then, at the other man’s request, tugs off the condom and jizzes on his face and a little in his open mouth, on his outstretched tongue.

He breathes heavily, and he cleans up. Atlas gives him a $200 tip that makes him feel like a fucking god for a minute, and after getting dressed and processing their session on the iPad, he leaves the hotel, head in the clouds. Head full of Mickey.

He checks his phone on the L ride back to the Southside and smiles when he sees Mickey’s messaged him.

\------------------------

**Mickey (8:01 PM):** Are you dead

\------------------------

Nerd. 

But in all fairness, they haven’t texted since Ian’s L ride home from work at five, and at this hour, they’re typically well on their way to a night of casual conversation.

\------------------------

**Ian (8:22 PM):** Hm, I don’t think so. 🤔 Though I do get the occasional whiff of fire and brimstone, so it’s possible.

**Mickey (8:22 PM):** What are you doing

\------------------------

Normally, Ian would have zero qualms about answering that question with total honesty. The two of them have reached a point in which Ian no longer gives a fuck about sharing even the most intimate details of his sessions with clients--down to their dick size and the positions in which he fucked them.

And he starts to go for it. Types, _On my way back from fucking a guy named Atlas._ 🙄

But last second, instead of tapping the send arrow, he erases it all. 

\------------------------

**Ian (8:23 PM):** Talking to you. 😏

\------------------------

he sends instead, dodging an answer. 

For some reason, he doesn’t want to tell Mickey. He doesn’t want to tell him that he just had sex with a hot guy who wasn’t actually an old man, and he doesn’t want to tell him that he did it face-to-face. He doesn’t want to tell him the client had asked to kiss him, and that even though he said no, Atlas still apparently found him good enough to tip him two benjamins. 

It sounds silly.

He wants to tell him he thought about him a little while he was fucking the client. Not the whole time, not in a way that suggested he couldn’t get off any other way.

He’d just...thought about him. Thought about the feel of his body there toward the end, as Atlas was starting to tense and Ian felt the need to pull out, to get him off by hand alone. 

As he jerked his cock over Atlas’s face just before he came, he’d thought about the plushness of Mickey’s tongue and what it would feel like against the head of his dick as he pulsed out onto it.

It was dirty. He has filthy thoughts about him sometimes. Thinks about how hot he is in addition to how much he likes him, how hard he’s falling, how beautiful he is. How much of a comfort he can be.

Thinks about having Mickey under him, his body flushed and sweaty. Thinks about slipping into him without a condom--the hottest fucking thing he can think of--and coming inside him all warm and wet.

He wonders if Mickey has a tight little body, if he clenches, what he feels like inside while he comes.

Shit.

Ian blows out a breath and peers around. No use getting horny on the fucking L train. He props his left ankle up on his right knee and leans over a bit, hiding anything that could potentially get him accusatory looks. Cups his phone in his hands.

\------------------------

**Ian (8:24 PM):** What are YOU doing?

**Mickey (8:24 PM):** Talking to you 🖕

**Ian (8:24 PM):** Oh, so having the best evening of your life, then? Lucky you.

**Mickey (8:25 PM):** Funny, I’m also startin to smell fire and brimstone

**Ian (8:25 PM):** Are you implying you’re in hell?

**Mickey (8:25 PM):** Would have to be

**Ian (8:26 PM):** Nope! Impossible.

**Ian (8:26 PM):** Pretty sure talking to me’s the closest you’ll get to heaven on earth.

**Mickey (8:26 PM):** Oh yeah?

**Ian (8:27 PM):** Yeah. 😎 Sparkling personality. Dashing good looks. What more could you want?

**Mickey (8:27 PM):** A brain

**Ian (8:27 PM):** 😲

**Mickey (8:27 PM):** 😎

**Ian (8:28 PM):** You did not…

**Mickey (8:28 PM):** Looks like I kinda did

**Ian (8:28 PM):** Mickey!

**Mickey (8:29 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

It occurs to Ian--certainly not for the first time--that they’re pretty blatantly flirting. 

He’s got a bit of horniness going, if only just the faintest touch of tingles, and he’s flirting with the guy he so very much wants to absolutely _consume_ in bed.

He hasn’t thought about it quite like that before, but it fits. He wants Mickey in his entirety, and it’s embarrassing to think that way. It’s the first time he’s ever wanted someone like this.

Ian’s thought plenty of guys were hot over the years. He’s _had sex_ with plenty of hot guys. He’s never once wanted to fuck someone so much because he sort of loves him--wants to hear all his little sounds, taste his mouth, feel him around him as he grips him so snug and safe.

Here he goes again. He shifts in his seat. Bites his lip.

\------------------------

**Ian (8:31 PM):** Can I get a picture in exchange for your blatant theft of my brand?

**Mickey (8:31 PM):** Corny ass sunglasses emojis are your brand, huh

**Ian (8:31 PM):** You love it. 😎

**Mickey (8:32 PM):** Fucker

**Ian (8:32 PM):** 😍😍😍

\------------------------

That wasn’t at all a _no_ , and Ian’s belly lights up.

\------------------------

**Ian (8:33 PM):** Send me a picture. 

**Mickey (8:33 PM):** Of what

**Ian (8:33 PM):** Your sparkling personality and dashing good looks. 😏

\------------------------

For the first time, Mickey sends him two selfies at once.

They come through while Ian’s stepping out onto the platform at his stop.

Mickey’s sparkling personality. A picture of him looking bored, flipping off the camera. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a hole in the neck seam.

His dashing good looks. A picture of him squinting goofily, mouth screwed up and nose scrunched. It’s the cutest fucking thing in the world, and Ian wants to kiss that face, just as it is.

\------------------------

**Ian (8:41 PM):** The sparkliest and most dashing. 

**Mickey (8:41 PM):** Cheeseball

**Ian (8:41 PM):** Uh huh. 😍

\------------------------

Holy fuck. 

He’s gonna go insane.

Aside from the fact that Mickey’s quite literally paying Ian and Ian is existing somewhere in this ball of uncertainty about the true nature of their relationship, the worst part of this whole situation is that it’s one big slow simmer that Ian believes wholeheartedly will cause him to one day combust.

He’s patient. Well, he’s as patient as he _can_ be. He tries his hardest not to push because he knows Mickey’s new at this and, y’know, Ian’s also not the world’s most experienced in the romance department.

But he can’t help but find himself, as he’s lying in bed that night following nearly two hours of murmuring about silly things to Mickey in the dark, wishing that something would happen to push them a bit further along.

Wishing there could be something, somewhere, somehow that would give him better insight into whatever the fuck he and Mickey have going on there. Friendship. Like. Love. 

Something that could help him figure out whether he wants to risk it all in hopes of something more by telling Mickey he doesn’t have to pay for this shit anymore.

\---  
\---

On Sunday afternoon, Ian’s sitting in his window, smoking and reading the third book in this high fantasy series he’s gotten nerdily into recently, when Mickey texts him.

It’s a screenshot of an email regarding Mickey’s five-month anniversary with the app, providing a link to the Big Survey with the incentive of being entered into a drawing for a gift card to an online sex toy shop.

It hits Ian then, looking at it, that he and Mickey have been talking for five months. Shit. 

Five months is a long fucking time, isn’t it, at least when you’re spending that time with a steadily growing warmth in your chest. 

Ian sets down his book.

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:01 PM):** Does this survey impact you?

\------------------------

It’s the Big Survey--the one kestrel clients have to spend a full five months with the app to complete. It’s their only chance, with the exception of the exit survey, to evaluate their Perfect Match, to rate them in ways that will quite literally impact their star score and therefore their pay. 

Ian’s got a 4.9 star score, which is pretty killer. He tends to get higher ratings due to the algorithmic shit that continually assigns him older clients happy with what they can get from a young guy, so it would generally take a lot to knock him down below the 4.8 threshold that qualifies him for bonus pay.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:04 PM):** Yes. But I only ever hear about it if someone's complained.

**Mickey (2:04 PM):** You get complaints

**Ian (2:05 PM):** Glad that surprises you. 😏

**Ian (2:05 PM):** Every once in a while, yes. Mostly people mad about shit I refuse to do with them. Horse guy, remember?

**Mickey (2:06 PM):** Got it

\------------------------

Ian swallows and swings his legs restlessly, dangled as they are over the edge of his window.

For the briefest of moments, he thinks about Mickey actually winning that fucking prize drawing. Thinks about him buying sex toys.

Holy shit.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:06 PM):** You should do the survey, though. Maybe you'll win free sex toys.

**Ian (2:06 PM):** If you're into that?

\------------------------

It feels risky.

In a roundabout way, Ian’s just asked him if he likes fucking himself with a dildo.

Sure, there are other sex toys. There are masturbators and vibrating rings and beads and shit if you’re into that. But c’mon. If you’re spending $100 on sex toys, you’re buying an expensive-ass dildo.

Ian’s heart pounds as he waits for Mickey’s answer.

It doesn’t come.

That slow simmer never going anywhere. Ian sighs. Sets down his phone. Picks back up his book.

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:15 PM):** Rated you all 1s. Sorry

\------------------------

The message comes in nearly ten minutes later, once Ian’d figured Mickey was done for the time being. He smiles.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:15 PM):** Mickey-scale ones? The best compliment, honestly.

**Mickey (2:16 PM):** Hey, what should I put in the comment box

**Mickey (2:16 PM):** Like is there something they're looking for or what

\------------------------

Is Mickey offering to give him a purposely glowing review, incorporating all the positives the company’s looking for?

Ian leans his head against the side of the window and blows out a slow, steady breath.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:17 PM):** Just be honest. I appreciate it, but you don't need to make up something for me.

**Mickey (2:17 PM):** But if I don't make shit up it's gonna be all complaints

**Ian (2:17 PM):** You got complaints, huh?

**Mickey (2:18 PM):** I think I've given you a list before

**Ian (2:18 PM):** Well, we can't have that.

\------------------------

Ian smiles and types out the absolute corniest review he can come up with.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:20 PM):** Put “Ian is a joy to work with. I've used other professional dating services before, but he is by far the best match I've ever had in all ways. You should pay him more. Sincerely, A Very Satisfied Customer”

**Mickey (2:21 PM):** 🖕

**Ian (2:21 PM):** 😎

\------------------------

A couple minutes later, Mickey sends him a screenshot of the completed survey, and though Ian had known he was lying about giving him 1s, it makes his heart happy to see that Mickey had rated him 5s in everything, even in shit like _professionalism_.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:23 PM):** Mmhm. I see those 5s, bitch.

**Mickey (2:23 PM):** 🖕

**Ian (2:24 PM):** Thanks, Mickey.

**Mickey (2:24 PM):** Whatever

\------------------------

Ian taps his fingers against the sides of his phone. He huffs out a breath. Considers. And, with a little surge of bravery sizzling through his blood, types,

\------------------------

**Ian (2:25 PM):** And to show you how thankful I am...

**Ian (2:25 PM):** Got a picture request?

\------------------------

It’s not even three o’fucking clock in the afternoon, but well, whatever. Mickey’s just rated him all 5s and gives enough of a shit to submit a purposely contrived review of him so that he looks good for his employer.

That’s not nothing.

That makes Ian’s belly warm.

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:26 PM):** You gonna request one of me afterwards like last time?

**Ian (2:26 PM):** Maaaaybe. Got a problem with that?

**Mickey (2:26 PM):** 🖕

**Mickey (2:27 PM):** Fine.

**Ian (2:27 PM):** 😏

\------------------------

While he waits, Ian climbs out of the window, closes it, and stretches out on his bed instead, thinking about Mickey Milkovich and all the things potentially going through his mind.

He tries to predict what he’s going to request. Something funny, probably, if the _eating cereal in your underwear_ thing was any indication of his comfort with asking for this kinda thing.

It’ll probably be relatively tame, too, PG-13 pics rather than anything straight up pornographic. Ian tugs at the waistband of his running shorts, checking to see whether he’s wearing decent, unholey underwear or if he needs to change.

His phone _ding_ s.

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:30 PM):** A picture of you jerking off

\------------------------

Ian thinks he might pass out.

Holy fucking fuck.

He clutches at his dick through his shorts like a lifeline and tries to calm his breathing.

So much for _relatively tame_. And the thing about this is that there’s no mistaking the implications. At least with the cereal thing, there was the undercurrent of humor. This request’s just full-on _sexual_.

Shit, Mickey.

He’s into him, isn’t he? Has to be, right? Of all the pictures in the world--from corny poses to tame nonsense--Mickey chose something distinctly sexual.

Holy fuck. Holy fucking, fucking fuck. 

He’s taking too long to respond. Ian scrambles. Replies,

\------------------------

**Ian (2:32 PM):** Cool.

\------------------------

And if that ain’t the most ironic shit. _Cool_. 

Okay. Sure.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:33 PM):** How do you want me?

**Ian (2:33 PM):** I mean, should I be naked? Underwear? Dressed? Do you want to see my body or just my dick?

\------------------------

How is this happening? And how the hell is Ian actually _anxious_ about it? He does this shit most days of the week--does much more, in fact, sending guys pictures of his body from every angle, in every position.

He’s anxious and aroused, and he feels like his heart’s going to escape his chest cavity.

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:34 PM):** Underwear

**Mickey (2:34 PM):** Pulled down I guess

**Mickey (2:34 PM):** Show whatever you want

**Mickey (2:34 PM):** Your face maybe

\------------------------

His fucking face.

Ian runs his thumb idly back and forth against his forehead, brow furrowed, thinking.

What does this _mean_?

He has inklings. Thoughts. Hopes. He’s just been asked to take pictures of himself jerking off and yet his belly is swooping like Mickey’s told him something romantic.

He sets down his phone and buries his face in his hands. Rubs his palms against his cheeks, then his eyes. 

_Is_ this romantic?

Mickey wants to see him _jerk off_.

Does he want to see his come? Does he want this to be an artfully posed shot or like, filthy shit? Is Mickey into him?

_He wants to see Ian’s face._

\------------------------

**Ian (2:36 PM):** 👍

**Ian (2:37 PM):** Okay. I have one more question for you:

\------------------------

Ian considers how to ask it, types out bits and pieces of questions before erasing each and every one.

_How sexual do you want this?_

_Do you wanna see my jizz or just like my_

_How into this should I_

_Do you want this to be real or do you want a pose?_

He drops his phone. Laughs like an idiot. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is he doing?

Without giving it too much thought, Ian taps Mickey’s name at the top of the iMessage thread and selects the option to call him.

Mickey answers after one ring, and Ian doesn’t know whether he’s about to explode or burst into giggles like a dumb kid.

“Yeah,” Mickey intones, voice funny and gruff, like he’s a humorously pissed off sitcom character used for comic relief.

Ian can’t help but laugh then, stupid but gleeful. “Mickey,” he says, soft. “This is like, really fuckin' awkward. Sorry.”

Mickey makes a noise like a tiny sputter, like he’s caught and doesn’t know quite what to say, and Ian’s heart gives a leap as he rushes to clarify.

“Not _doing this_ with you.” Of course not. Never. “Just like. Typing this out to you because.” He huffs a breathy laugh. “I dunno. But anyway.”

Ian pauses, but Mickey’s quiet, clearly uninterested in responding.

And when he’s quiet for too long, the moment growing awkward, Ian picks up where he left off. 

“Just wanted to know like, do you want me to be _into it_ , or do you want artistic pictures?” He pauses. “'cause I can send you some poses, or I can like, _jerk off_ -jerk off.”

God, he sounds like a dumbass, his voice all shaky like he’s asking Mickey’s hand in marriage. He’s done this countless times in the past, yet this man has reduced him to a bumbling idiot.

“I dunno,” Mickey says, sounding bored but in a forced way, like he’s trying his hardest to appear unaffected. “Just jerk off, man.”

“But I mean.” Ian laughs and rubs a hand over his mouth. “Okay. I'm just gonna fuckin' say it. Do you wanna see my come—pre- or otherwise—or not?”

He blows out a breath. It’s the absolute most intensely awkward conversation he’s ever had in his life, and he thinks he might die before he reaches the end of it.

“That's what I'm gettin' at,” he murmurs quickly, nervously. “And like, I don't want to assume and then freak you out or like, push too hard too soon or something.” He snorts. “Sorry. This is fuckin' weird.”

There’s a moment of silence. Ian hears a bit of huffy breath, like Mickey’s thinking, his mouth too close to the receiver. 

And when he says the next thing, Ian’s heart wants to shatter.

“You don't like, _have_ to do this,” he says, voice just about as soft as Ian’s ever heard it. “I mean, if it's weird or.”

“No! Not like that.”

God no, Mickey. Ian’s face crumples as he considers the fact that Mickey’s having thoughts of Ian’s disinterest. “I just mean that I'm really used to like, guys literally telling me where to point my dick when I come, so this is just. New.” He pauses for a second. “And you're not...them. I guess.”

_You’re the complete opposite of them_ , Ian wants to say. _You’re beautiful and funny and you make me feel like the world’s actually a little bit okay._

There’s a staticky sniff before Mickey says, “Okay. Just do...your thing.”

Ian _hmm_ s. Cringes a little because he still doesn’t have the exact answer he wants, the answer to the question that’s basically, _So are you actually sexually into me, do you actually like me, or is this just like some weird, funny little thing we’re doing in which you ask to see me masturbate just **because**?_

He swallows, asks, “Okay, so that's consent to like, _fluids_. Right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Awkward phone call over.” Ian laughs. “Sorry. I just needed to...clarify. I'm gonna go jerk off now.”

He wants to punch himself in the face.

Instead, he laughs, and Mickey laughs with him, and something about this feels like release, the pop of a balloon and the slow seep of air. 

Okay. _Okay_.

“I'm hangin' up,” Mickey says, this sweet little lilt to his voice despite the grumpiness, and Ian feels his cheeks heat in a way he knows he won’t be able to hide in his pictures.

But shit. Whatever. 

What-the-fuck-ever.

\---

After they hang up, Ian climbs off his bed and saunters over to the other side of his room where he keeps his tripod and the little velvet bag of bluetooth accessories that go with it.

Maybe it’s overkill, maybe it’s stupid and completely, ridiculously unnecessary, but it’s how he snaps these types of pictures for his clients. All the fake, posed shit. All the full-body shots he takes after stroking himself to hardness while thinking about his favorite porn instead of the client.

But this feels different. As Ian sets up everything, snapping his phone into the clip on the stand and tossing the tiny bluetooth remote onto the bed, he feels tingles working their way down his spine and around to his dick.

He pulls off his shirt and slides his running shorts to the floor. Stretches out on the bed on his back and works his boxers halfway down his thighs. Blows out a breath.

After reaching for the nightstand drawer, procuring the lube and then squirting a dollop onto his fingertips, Ian settles in to jerk off.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Mickey, his usual fantasy of being ridden, of Mickey’s weight on his pelvis, shifting as he works himself on Ian’s cock.

He loves thinking about him like this, his body on top of him, being able to look up and over at his beautiful, sweaty face, the errant lock of hair that might stick to his forehead.

Ian imagines that Mickey’s belly gets that tiny little scrunchy roll it has in the shirtless pictures where he’s sitting down, and fuck, it’s stupid, but it makes Ian’s gut twist and his dick pulse.

He squeezes his eyes shut and clicks the remote, snapping a picture. 

Thinks about pulling Mickey forward, off him even, until he’s up straddling his upper chest. Thinks of tugging him down until Mickey’s stomach is hovering over his face and then surging up to kiss him, to press soft, loving affection against his skin. 

Thinks of moving him up more and more--until Ian’s mouth goes around the head of his cock. He wonders what he tastes like, how much precome he gets, how big he is, what he looks like.

Fuck.

He snaps another picture. Blows out a breath.

Mickey’s never had sex with a guy before. Ian feels like melting into a puddle on the mattress. Soaking in. Disappearing.

He realizes, the closer and closer he gets to orgasm, the more and more pictures he takes, that if he isn’t the first person to enter Mickey’s body he’s going to burst into a ball of flames.

He’ll never get over it.

Shit, he wants him.

Ian bites his lip and tilts back his head. Tosses an arm over his face.

God, this is so very different from how he usually does this. Never once has he gotten himself off to fantasies of the client he’s with. Never once has he made himself come to thoughts of a guy’s tiny belly roll and the imagined smell of his skin.

He speeds his hand on his cock, slipping through the lube and the bit of precome beading at the head, and it’s not long before he comes with a great exhale, all the air rushing from his lungs with a _whoosh_.

Holy fuck. Fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut and snaps photo after photo, working the last of the come out of him and onto his belly and chest.

Shit.

He rests.

\---

Five minutes later, after giving himself a few minutes to calm down, he gets up. Wipes down his belly, chest, and dick with a tissue. Pulls up his boxers.

He then takes his phone from the tripod and climbs back onto the bed, arranging himself cross-legged in the center. And for the next ten minutes, he chooses the best couple of shots--the first taken somewhere around the time he was imagining kissing Mickey’s belly and the second taken after he’d orgasmed, the come visible up his torso.

He’d taken about twenty pictures total, but they all look mostly the same. He chooses the two he does because they make him look the best, no awkward faces or unattractive positions.

Before he sends them, as he’s blowing breath out pursed lips trying to calm himself, he zooms in on the picture with the visible come. 

Here goes nothing, really. Moment of truth. A step over the line separating playful nudes and blatant sexuality.

With a face scrunch, steeling himself, Ian adds the pictures to a message and sends them to Mickey.

And as if by design, the moment the text goes through, Ian receives an Instagram notification that Mickey’s liked the photo he’d posted of him and Lip earlier in the day.

His heart hammers. Mickey’s on his phone right now. Mickey’s receiving the pictures right now.

Ian waits.

He waits and he waits. Eventually, he just has to scoot back against the headboard and pull his knees to his chest, belly jumping with nerves.

He closes his eyes, bumps his head against the slats, thinks about the fact that Mickey hasn’t replied.

And he knows there are numerous reasons for it. Maybe it’s something completely innocent. Maybe he’d liked Ian’s picture and then left the room without taking his phone with him. Maybe he was out in public and couldn’t spend time looking at the nudes just yet.

Or maybe he’s freaked out. Disgusted. Uncomfortable.

Ian blows out a breath. He cups his phone in his hands and stares at the screen for a long moment.

He types,

\------------------------

**Ian (3:16 PM):** Hey.

\------------------------

He doesn’t know what comes next. _Hey_ , then what? What do you even say?

_Hey, do you like the picture of me jerking off to you?_

_Hey, did my cum freak you out?_

_Hey, are you okay with this? I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I?_

But before he’s able to articulate anything past the awkwardly punctuated greeting, Mickey replies with something that sends such a jolt of relief through his body that he feels like he could float away out his bedroom window.

\------------------------

**Mickey (3:16 PM):** 👍👍

\------------------------

Shit. He grins, face glowing with it, lighting up like a match.

\------------------------

**Ian (3:17 PM):** TWO thumbs up? Damn.

**Ian (3:17 PM):** Glad you enjoyed.

**Ian (3:17 PM):** I also enjoyed.

**Ian (3:17 PM):** Taking them, that is. Not looking at myself.

**Mickey (3:18 PM):** Yeah, yeah

\------------------------

Ian brings his fist to his mouth and presses it tightly against his lips. He smiles against it then because he can’t fucking help it.

Considers.

Well. Why not. Mickey’d given him two goddamned thumbs up. Mickey’s _into_ him.

With a heavy sigh, Ian types a question that he immediately attempts to soften with reassurance.

\------------------------

**Ian (3:18 PM):** Do I get a request now?

**Ian (3:18 PM):** It's totally fine if not. I'll understand.

**Mickey (3:19 PM):** Whatcha want?

\------------------------

Better question: what _doesn’t_ he want? 

Ian swallows. He wanders his eyes around his bedroom, using the idleness to muster up the courage to ask for the thing he’s most curious about--at least right now.

He desperately doesn’t want to make Mickey feel weird. He should probably ask for a simple shirtless picture. A picture of his smile. A picture of _Jovi_.

Instead, he quickly types out

\------------------------

**Ian (3:20 PM):** I very obviously want to see your dick.

\------------------------

and sends it before he can second-guess himself.

\------------------------

**Ian (3:20 PM):** In any form that you want to show me.

**Ian (3:20 PM):** IF you want to show me.

\------------------------

The wait isn’t nearly as long as Ian was expecting. And when the message comes, he pulls his legs more tightly against his chest and bends to press his forehead to his kneecap.

\------------------------

**Mickey (3:21 PM):** Can I send you a picture later

\------------------------

It’s a _yes_ , isn’t it? A _yes, but later_. 

Ian thinks he might very well die before the later ever comes, his heart speeding to such a degree that he worries it might give out altogether.

\------------------------

**Ian (3:21 PM):** Yeah, of course.

**Mickey (3:22 PM):** Cool. Just can’t really do it right now

**Ian (3:22 PM):** 👍 

\------------------------

It’s awkward for a bit. Ian stretches out his legs and shifts around, getting more comfortable as if to compensate for the otherwise lack of it.

Maybe he should go. Maybe he should tell Mickey he’ll talk to him later and then go back to his book, trying his hardest to refocus his energy so he doesn’t drive himself crazy waiting on the incoming dick pic.

And he’s just about to say goodbye when Mickey texts him.

\------------------------

**Mickey (3:28 PM):** So you got an easy work week comin up

\------------------------

It’s entirely sweet in its clear attempt at small talk. Ian smiles as he replies.

\------------------------

**Ian (3:29 PM):** No, actually. Ellie and her husband are finally going on a honeymoon they’ve been saving for, and I’m helping cover her shifts. Ended up with 3 nights midweek. 

**Mickey (3:30 PM):** Got it

**Mickey (3:31 PM):** That not fuck with your sleep if you jump from days to nights like that

**Ian (3:31 PM):** Sort of. It sucks, but you gotta do whatcha gotta do. 😑

**Mickey (3:31 PM):** You at least gettin paid extra

**Ian (3:32 PM):** Yup. Bringing in the big bucks.

**Mickey (3:32 PM):** Uh huh

**Ian (3:32 PM):** 🤑

**Mickey (3:32 PM):** Goof

**Ian (3:33 PM):** 😍

\------------------------

Ian just showed Mickey his come, and Mickey called him a _goof_.

Sweet motherfucker. Ian wants to smooth back his hair and kiss his forehead.

Ian wants to sniff him in the warm space just behind his ear and squeeze him around the waist.

He’s losing it. He hopes, hopes, _high school freshman praying for a boy to like him_ hopes that Mickey might be, too.

\---

For the rest of the day, Ian occupies himself as best he can.

He reads eight-two pages of his book, watches three episodes of _The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina_ , and cooks himself some white cheddar macaroni from a box that he eats at the kitchen table while following along with the Gallagher group chat.

Debbie’s pissed at everybody for something she has zero business being pissed about, and Carl’s taken on the burden of arguing with her via text. It’s funny as shit, and Ian smirks, amused, as he eats and stays the fuck out of it.

At a quarter ‘til eight, just as Ian’s clearing his dishes and grabbing himself an Old Style from the fridge he’s planning to kick back and enjoy along with more _Sabrina_ , his phone goes off with a text alert.

He checks his watch.

It’s later, isn’t it? Shit.

_Shit_.

He scrambles for the kitchen table, picks up his phone, and without even giving himself a moment to breathe, opens the text.

And part of him wishes Mickey’d forewarned him.

_Hey, dick pic incoming. Make sure you’re sitting down._

But no, he didn’t. Mickey’d sent Ian his very first nude just before eight o’clock on a Sunday night, and though Ian was expecting it-- _hoping_ for it, hadn’t stopped thinking about it since Mickey’d said he’d send one later--he can’t help but feel like his bones have turned to jelly at the sight.

It’s a chest-to-thighs mirror shot. Mickey isn’t doing anything special--just standing there holding up his phone.

His belly is soft and sweet, nipples are hard and tight like he’s just stepped out of the warm shower and into the cool air, and well, the rest?

The rest makes Ian float over to the couch and sink into the cushions.

Mickey’s a little smaller than average, but he’s perfect, and he’s beautiful, and he’s everything Ian could ever want. He’s got messy, mussed pubic hair, and his dick’s pretty, pink, and soft. Ian wants to drop to his knees, press his face to his belly and tongue to the head of him, getting him hard, getting him slick and wet and feeling better than he’s ever felt in his life.

God.

Ian zooms in on his dick and considers a day when he might be able to touch it. When he might be able to kiss it and suck it and drag his mouth all over Mickey’s body, across all his soft, intimate places.

He swallows. Taps into the text box.

\------------------------

**Ian (7:49 PM):** MICKEY.

**Mickey (7:50 PM):** 👍 or 👎?

**Ian (7:50 PM):** 👍👍👍👍

**Ian (7:51 PM):** Yes. Four.

\------------------------

He scrolls back up to look at the picture again. Bites his lip and wants desperately to have him. To love him.

Mickey’s never been with a guy, and Ian wants to be his first and only.

\------------------------

**Ian (7:52 PM):** You're beautiful.

\------------------------

he texts because it’s all he can think to say. It’s all he can think in general.

\------------------------

**Mickey (7:53 PM):** Shut up

**Ian (7:53 PM):** Never ever ever.

**Ian (7:53 PM):** So, y'know, that's a thing you can send me whenever you fuckin' want.

\------------------------

Mickey sends back four middle finger emojis, an appropriate parallel to Ian’s four thumbs ups, and Ian wants nothing more than to kiss his grumpy face.

\---  
\---

It gets worse. It just keeps getting worse and worse.

For the next several nights, all Ian can think about as they talk about everything and nothing, murmuring in the dark like a pair of secret lovers, is the fact that Mickey’s _attracted to him_.

Mickey sticks around after dick pics and flirts with him.

Mickey says some of the kindest things he’s ever heard anyone say in a way that sounds so utterly honest that Ian can’t help but believe him.

Maybe Mickey _likes him_. He can’t get it out of his head.

He thinks he might have a boyfriend, if not right now then soon, and he thinks that one day they’ll meet up to kiss and touch and tell each other in the daylight things they only whisper in the dark.

\---

Ian has an exhausting week. 

As much as he tries to pass it off as simply par for the course, the sudden switches to and from night shifts _do_ fuck with his sleep schedule. He’s groggy and cranky like an overtired kid, and by Friday, he’s missing his and Mickey’s late night conversations as much as he’s missing his bed and pillow.

He jumps at the chance to talk to him that night, and they do it for hours like a pair of high schoolers in a TV show who’ll eventually get in trouble for running up the phone bill.

The conversation begins at about ten, the two of them discussing a guy at Mickey’s work named Sean who’s apparently _really hot like a fuckin’ Greek god but a complete moron._

They continue the train of thought until it transitions into Ian telling Mickey about Debbie drama, which--running on the sister theme--turns to a discussion of Mandy and what she’s currently doing with her life, which ultimately results in the two of them still talking after midnight, somehow fucking around together on Spotify after Ian’d told Mickey about how he came out to Mandy while referencing his crush on Justin Timberlake.

“Ramen noodle hair motherfucker,” Mickey’d murmured, voice grumpy like he was jealous--even though that was ridiculous--and Ian grins later on when he remembers it, searching through Spotify for another playlist to send Mickey.

He’s been annoying him with playlists he only half-cares about him listening to, mostly just wanting to have fun with him and hear his opinion on shit Ian listens to sometimes.

The playlists he sends are heavy on the popular alternative, somewhat on the upbeat indie, with the occasional female pop and hip hop artist thrown in. He’s been listening to a lot of Dua Lipa lately, having listened to her [_Future Nostalgia_ album](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EJ-vZyBzOQ&list=PLNrotoZZ8BaouNABcO_A9Xkn_Nkz0PT11&index=1) several times over, and he can’t help but grin when Mickey complains about the Spotify link he sends him.

“Your taste in music sucks.”

“Mm. You liked that Hozier song, didn't you?”

There’s an obnoxiously exaggerated yawning sound. “That what song?”

“Our first date song.”

Ian’s lips upturn at the thought of Mickey rolling his eyes. And it doesn’t feel as risky or anxiety-inducing to call it that as he’d have thought. Instead, it feels low-stakes, silly, framed as something easy to joke his way out of if he had to.

“I'm too tired for this,” Mickey says, but Ian knows he’s bluffing. Knows he’s having just as much fun as he is.

Deciding to turn up the tease to an eleven, Ian taps the Spotify search bar and scrolls down until he finds a particular profile he’d discovered while doing a casual search of Mickey’s Instagram username.

Was that weird? Maybe. Whatever. Ian’d thought it was funny when he’d found Mickey’s account, complete with its saved playlists.

“Also,” he says, giving the account another once-over, “you listen to like, dad music.”

Mickey scoffs. “I fuckin' do not.”

“Explain to me why I'm looking at your Spotify account right now and you've saved... Let's see.” Ian begins to read, voice confident and sure. “'90s Rock Anthems,' ' 80s Hard Rock,' 'Power Ballads,' '00s Metal Classics,' 'Rock Me UP!,' and then. Well, this one I'm cool with. 'I Love My West Coast Classics.'”

There’s also a playlist called “stuff,” and it’s a mish-mash of various alternative hits like Mickey’d gone through his Spotify-curated playlists and saved his favorites to it.

Mickey sputters for a moment, a little _pff_ sound over speakerphone, and asks, “How'd you find my fuckin' Spotify account?”

“Rookie mistake. You used your Instagram username. I searched you up.”

“Stalkin' my ass?”

“Stalkin' somethin'.” Ian chuckles, belly warm.

Does Mickey like him? 

He’s almost certainly _into him_ in a sex kinda way, and fine, okay, there’s no fucking way Ian’s _completely_ delusional, kidding himself about the way they talk to each other. The way they look at each other over FaceTime. 

The way they send each other literal nudes.

He swallows and climbs off the couch, heading into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

“Anyway,” he says, flipping on the light. “You're wrong, as usual.”

“Fuck you. Also, it's almost one. Get your ass in the bed.”

“I know, I know. Fuck, I hate when I work nights.”

He really, really does. It makes him feel bone-tired yet wired in the worst way, his initial allnighter as he switches over to nights giving him stomach-gnawing nausea that never fully goes away until he’s allowed himself to sleep for a good twelve hours in an effort to get back on his regular schedule.

He leans back against the sink, waiting patiently on Mickey to respond.

There’s a shifting sound over the line, followed by the absolute softest, “Does that not like, mess with your bipolar?”

Ian takes a deep breath. He wonders maybe if Mickey’s done research.

And it shouldn’t surprise him that Mickey remembers his bipolar. Like, obviously he does--he’s a fucking 26-year-old, not a senile grandparent. But Ian can’t help but find himself continually touched that Mickey remembers shit about him, from the big to the mundane. He can’t help but want to preen a little at the fact that Mickey apparently cares enough about him to allow facts about his life to take up space in his brain. 

He swallows and shrugs to himself before turning on the water. “It can. Probably not something as occasional as this. But yeah. Bad sleep habits can increase the risk of me going manic.” He pauses, sets down his phone, and takes a second to splash water on his face, running his hands up and down across his flushed skin before turning off the tap with his wrist and wiping down his face with a towel. 

“My boss knows that,” he says after picking back up the phone. “That's why I'm scheduled for days, mostly, since it's easier to maintain.”

“Well, fuckin' tell her not to put you on nights again.”

His belly warms at it. Sweet motherfucker. Is he _concerned_ about him? Ian watches himself in the mirror as his cheeks go pink beneath his eyes like a blushing kid.

Stupid. But well, fine. He’s in love, probably. Sue him for being this way.

Sue him for feeling the flutter of butterflies in his belly at the thought of Mickey coming to his defense.

“Mickey,” he whispers, voice as gentle as he can make it. “I'm helping cover for Ellie. She's on her honeymoon.”

“And now you're workin' seven days in a row.”

“It's just this once.” He smiles then. He can’t help it. “And now I'm done with the coverage, so the rest of my shifts are days. I'm good.”

Mickey sighs, and the palpable concern is enough to make Ian feel like he’s been injected with helium. He switches off the light and walks from the bathroom to his bedroom on autopilot, a cartoon character with hearts for eyes.

“But didn't you say being overworked can trigger stuff?” Mickey asks, so soft and fucking _kind_ , like he’s wanting to actually make Ian feel good and supported with his words. “Like, stress can make you go manic or whatever?”

“Mm. Yeah.” Ian sets his phone down for a second and pulls back his covers. Picks it back up again. “But like I said. Occasional stuff's not gonna do anything. I'm careful, and I know myself pretty well now. Know all my triggers and how to manage.”

“Whatever.”

He isn’t happy about it. That makes Ian inexplicably glad.

He yawns and murmurs, “I'm gettin' in bed,” crawling in and pulling the covers up under his armpits. He leans over and switches off the nightstand lamp.

Shit.

And here he is. Here they are. In the dark, in bed, separated by who knows how many blocks but joined through the phone. Ian thinks about the fact that Mickey feels enough for him to not want him to work nights. To want to protect him from having an episode.

He wants so desperately to have him with him, all snug and safe and warm under the covers.

There’s a moment of silence, and Ian lets it linger before closing his eyes and whispering, “Thank you. For being. Y'know. Concerned.”

Mickey sniffs. Pauses. “I don't like you gettin' like, stressed out and shit, man.”

“I know. But.” Ian twists around, getting comfortable. “Just trust me, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And I can like. If you want, I can text you some stuff about it? Just like, common things to look for, and I can tell you some personal stuff to look for with me, maybe? In case I don't realize?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Cool. I'll do it tomorrow during my shift if it's slow.”

It’ll mark a shift, won’t it? Another shift in an endless line of shifts--Ian sharing things with Mickey that only he, his therapist, and his older siblings know. Personal shit. Embarrassing shit. With the list he’ll send him, Mickey’ll be joining an exclusive club of people who get to know things the rest of the world doesn’t.

The two of them are quiet. After a minute, there’s a shuffling noise followed by the beginning of a deep, rhythmic purr.

He _aww_ s a bit because whatever, it’s cute, and says, “Love that Jovi. He sleep with you?”

“Most nights, yeah. He's on my fuckin' head right now. Sounds like a motor.”

“Mm. Probably a good sleeping buddy, though. Like your own personal sleep machine.”

Mickey chuckles, and it’s beautiful, just like he is. “Could be worse, I guess. At least he don't snore.”

“Do you snore?”

“I dunno. Never watched myself sleep, so.”

“An--”

He starts to form the word _any_ , starts to ask a question out of quick, careless thinking: _Any of the people you slept with ever mentioned it?_

And he doesn’t necessarily mean sexually, though he knows that’s how it’ll definitely be interpreted.

Thankfully, he stopped himself in time--lets the cut-off word hang awkwardly in the air.

“Do you?” Mickey finally asks, breaking the silence.

“Nope.”

“Of course not.”

Ian _hmm_ s and smiles fondly, snuggling down in the covers. He wants to close his eyes, exhaustion overtaking him, and fall asleep to the sweet music of Mickey’s teasing voice.

Mickey must pick up on it, as he asks, “You passin' out soon, sleepyface?”

Sleepyface. He’ll never get over it.

“Mm. In a while, yeah.”

Ian pulls the covers more tightly around him and brings up his legs so he’s curled a bit on his side.

He imagines Mickey lying on the other pillow, facing him. Imagines scooting in, in, in and wrapping his arm around his waist, pulling him close, kissing his forehead.

Sex will be great, of course. If he ever is able to get with Mickey for real, he’ll fuck him hard and slow and sweet. He’ll fuck him any way he can.

But without fail, the thing he always finds his mind wandering toward when he imagines a future with Mickey Milkovich as his boyfriend is holding each other in bed. Feeling safe together.

Feeling happy.

Mickey makes him so fucking happy.

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a rough little puff out his nose. Bites his lip, considering, before murmuring, heart creeping up into his throat, smile working its way onto his lips without his permission, “Can I tell you something?” 

There’s a pause. Then, “What's up?” Cotton soft.

Ian takes a deep breath in. Slow breath out. “You make me feel good.”

He didn’t know the exact combination of words that would come out until he said them.

They feel right.

“I mean,” he continues, “you know my shit, and you're like.” He pauses with a quick, breathy laugh. “Sorry, I have to use the word. You're sweet about it.”

There’s a loud, offended snort, and Ian chuckles. “Shut up. Anyway. I just wanted you to know that. Sorry if it was sappy or whatever.”

He likes him so much.

_The happiness you feel when you’re falling is one of the best things in the world_.

He makes him so very happy.

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a minute, and Ian assumes he’s made him lightly uncomfortable--in the sort of way that gets him all blushy rather than upset. He snuggles into his pillow and sighs. Waiting.

There’s a little huffy noise, followed by an “I dunno.”

Ian hums, anticipating an awkward but gentle rejection, something cute in the fact that it’s clearly put-upon.

He isn’t at all expecting what Mickey actually says.

“I like talkin' to you, and.” There’s a pause. A sniff. Ian’s heart gives a shocked rabbit-kick, his breath picking up. 

“You're. I dunno. You're the only person I've ever...” A beat. A nervous little grumble. “I dunno what I'm saying but. I like...you.”

Holy fuck, Mickey.

_Mickey_.

Ian feels like crumpling into a little ball and wrapping himself in the covers, tight, held, keeping him secure enough that he won’t explode with joy. He also feels like leaping out of bed. Feels like a fucking corny-ass guy in a movie who’s just scored the best news of his life.

Instead, he turns his face into his pillow and grins wide enough his teeth press against the fabric. He wants to scream.

He calms himself.

He whispers, heart thump-thumping so hard he can hear it in his ears, “I like you, too.”

In all the world, in all the places he’s looked, all the searching, all the dead-ends and emptiness and warm mouths with nothing behind them, he’s somehow managed to find this man who gives enough of a shit to want him healthy. To stay up until one in the morning talking to him. To tell him he _likes_ him. 

Mickey _likes_ him.

And this _has_ to be romantic. Two people don’t whisper words of _like_ to each other in the dark out of friendship. You don’t nervously tell your friends you like them in response to them telling you that you make them feel good. 

No. No way.

Ian lies there snug in bed, eyes shut, mouth split into a wide grin, and decides once and for all that Mickey Milkovich is going to be his boyfriend. Decides that the thought, once a mere hope, once a wish he feared would never become a reality, is something instead to look forward to in the future, the logical progression of events. Endgame for where they’re headed.

The decision feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s exhausted, relieved, smiling and yawning and turning it into a comical groan because he thinks it’ll make Mickey laugh, and it does, it _does_ , if only for a second.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Mickey grumbles, and Ian wants to kiss his face.

He yawns again, instead. “Yeah. You too.” He pulls his phone away from his face and checks the time. “Fuck, I have to get up in five hours.”

“Go,” Mickey says. “Night.”

He fucking _cares about him_.

Ian snuffles. Smiles again. Whispers, “Night, Mick,” in a way he hopes reveals nothing but love and affection.

Love.

He’s in love.

\---  
\---

Work _is_ slow the next morning, thank God. It allows him to nap in one of the breakroom chairs, tamping down a little of the exhaustion so he can act like some semblance of a functioning human when he’s needed.

After dozing for about an hour, he wakes with a jerk to the sound of a bottle of pop falling from the drink machine.

“Sorry,” the guy apologizes, and Ian simply yawns and ignores him. Rubs his eyes.

He climbs out of the chair after giving himself a minute to wake up and heads for the fridge, where he takes a Red Bull from the four-pack he keeps on the bottom shelf, his name and a skull and crossbones penned on a post-it and stuck to the box.

For the next five minutes, he sips his Red Bull and scrolls around on his phone, checking his social media and responding to a few texts--Fiona, Ellie, Gallagher group chat.

And, well, simply because he’s in love and he wants to, he pulls up his text thread with Mickey.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:12 PM):** Hey

\------------------------

It takes a few minutes, but Mickey does eventually answer. 

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:18 PM):** Yo

**Mickey (2:18 PM):** Sup

**Ian (2:18 PM):** Bored at work. 🙁

**Mickey (2:19 PM):** Welcome to my world

**Ian (2:19 PM):** Also really tired. Kinda want you to come stab me.

**Mickey (2:19 PM):** Too messy, man. Guns are the way to go

**Ian (2:20 PM):** I guess… 

**Mickey (2:20 PM):** I’ll make it quick

**Ian (2:20 PM):** Gonna come to my funeral?

**Mickey (2:21 PM):** Too suspicious

**Mickey (2:21 PM):** Just be a memorial service though, nobody will ever find your body

**Ian (2:21 PM):** Shark food?

**Mickey (2:21 PM):** Where the fuck am I gonna find a shark, dumbass

**Ian (2:22 PM):** Fish food, then.

**Mickey (2:22 PM):** Milkoviches have their ways

**Ian (2:22 PM):** 😳 

**Ian (2:23 PM):** Well, hurry it up. Got about 2.5 hours til my shift’s over.

**Mickey (2:23 PM):** 🔫🔫🔫

**Ian (2:23 PM):** Pew

**Mickey (2:24 PM):** Dickhead

**Ian (2:24 PM):** 😍😍😍

\------------------------

Ian finishes up his Red Bull and free-throw shoots it at the trash can. Misses. Whatever. He smirks and goes back to his texting.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:28 PM):** Hey.

**Mickey (2:29 PM):** ?

**Ian (2:29 PM):** Are you actually cool with me giving you my bipolar checklist?

**Mickey (2:30 PM):** Yeah

**Ian (2:30 PM):** 😊

\------------------------

Ian spends the next ten minutes sending Mickey a list of things to watch for in a way that would be relevant to and would make sense to Mickey: acting wired, coming up with outlandish plans and ideas and being convinced that he has to do them, talking too much--

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:36 PM):** How the fuck am I supposed to tell, you talk too much as it is

**Ian (2:36 PM):** 🖕 I mean like calling you and talking a mile a minute all this peppy shit like I’ve been injected with caffeine.

**Ian (2:36 PM):** I’m also sometimes weirdly happy when I’m manic. Just goofy happy and laughing at shit that isn’t funny.

**Mickey (2:37 PM):** Laughing at shit that isn’t funny, huh

**Ian (2:37 PM):** Shut up. I’m hilarious.

**Mickey (2:37 PM):** Whatever you say 🖕

\------------------------

There’s a pause in which Ian tries to figure out how to explain the hypersexuality thing. And he’s about to start working on a text, tapping into the box and getting his thumbs poised above the keyboard, when Mickey sends a message that makes him smile from its inherent sweetness.

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:39 PM):** Ok, I’ll keep a lookout

**Ian (2:40 PM):** Thanks. 😊

**Ian (2:40 PM):** There’s one more thing. A sex thing, sort of.

\------------------------

Mickey doesn’t reply, and Ian wonders if he’s broken him.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:40 PM):** Hypersexuality. It’s basically uncontrollable sexual urges, more than normal horniness. Constantly wanting to mindlessly fuck just to have an orgasm and getting irritated when I can’t. 

\------------------------

It takes Mickey the longest time to respond to that. Ian gets it.

They’re not having sex, and they’re not currently in each other’s physical presence in any capacity, so it’s not like Mickey can really keep an eye on it.

But Ian hopes that soon the two of them _will_ be in person. He hopes that soon another shift will happen. Someone will say something. Maybe him, maybe Mickey, maybe they’ll arrive at the conclusion together. Mickey will cancel his kestrel account and they’ll go on a date, and Ian will kiss his mouth and his neck and wrap his arms around him, whispering, “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

\------------------------

**Mickey (2:44 PM):** Cool

**Mickey (2:44 PM):** Ok

\------------------------

It isn’t a wisecrack, a sex joke, or a response suggesting feigned disinterest. 

It’s clear that Mickey doesn’t quite know what to say, but he’s trying. He’s doing what he can.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:45 PM):** Thanks for letting me tell you this shit. 

**Mickey (2:45 PM):** Yeah

**Ian (2:46 PM):** It’s a weird thing to tell someone about. Haven’t really told a lot of people outside my family. Just my boss because I had to and a couple coworkers.

**Mickey (2:47 PM):** Well it’s probably even weirder for you to have to deal with so it’s cool

**Ian (2:47 PM):** Understatement. 😑

\------------------------

A call comes in then, the station alarm going off. Ian rubs his hands over his face and sighs.

\------------------------

**Ian (2:48 PM):** Talk to you later. Time to save the world! 

**Mickey (2:48 PM):** Later, superman

**Mickey (2:48 PM):** Guess I don’t gotta shoot you after all

**Ian (2:49 PM):** Your lucky day. What would you do without me? 😎

\------------------------

Ian feels a lingering warmth spread down to his toes.

\---

A couple hours later, when he’s back at the station following what amounted to be a spider bite that had led to sepsis, he checks his phone for the first time since sending his last text to Mickey.

He can’t help the smile that cracks his face and the heat that rises in his cheeks.

\------------------------

**Mickey (3:12 PM):** Hey

**Mickey (3:12 PM):** Just wanted to say you can tell me stuff

**Mickey (3:12 PM):** About your bipolar or anything

**Mickey (3:13 PM):** Whatever you want I guess

**Mickey (3:13 PM):** See ya

\------------------------

It takes everything in Ian’s power not to send him a heart emoji.

He pulls up the emoji keyboard and seeks it out, even--gets as far as deliberating between colors.

Jake’s there with him, and he makes some laughing comment about dick, and it spoils the moment, really. Ian kicks him lightly in the shin, shoves his phone back in his pocket, and follows him to the rig for cleaning.

\---  
\---

Once Ian decides that all signs point to Mickey one day being his boyfriend, it’s easier to relax. It’s easier to let his guard down some, to not be as nervous about every little thought, every little action.

They’re into each other. Romantically. With romantic intent.

He’s 90% positive, the other 10% just because there hasn’t yet been verbal confirmation. A _just in case_ bit of uncertainty.

It feels good to have these thoughts, to have hope that they’re going to be together one day. It makes his daily boredom, his stress, and the difficult moments in his life pass quickly like the rain. It feels like security, like being wrapped in a blanket.

There’s the thing with the app, of course, and it’s constantly there, putting just the slightest damper on Ian’s new feelings, but Ian wants to believe with all his heart that it’s only a matter of time until they drop the pretense altogether.

Maybe.

That 10% weighs on him a little, despite the fact that it’s only a mere fraction in comparison to the 90.

He thinks about Mickey murmuring in the dark that he likes him. He thinks about Mickey writing that he can tell him anything. He thinks about Mickey saying _yes_. Yes, I would kiss you. Yes.

He thinks about the fact that Mickey, who sure as hell isn’t going to do anything he doesn’t want to do, is still a paying client and hasn’t made a move to cancel despite the fact that Ian’s _absolutely certain_ Mickey knows Ian’d stick with him for free.

Ian gave him his _personal number_ for fuck’s sake. They’re literally not even using the app.

That weighty 10% is why Ian doesn’t say anything, even though he can. Even though he probably should. He doesn’t _want_ Mickey’s money, and he’s actively saving and planning to return every bit of it he’s received once this whole app thing’s done. But he also knows that if Mickey Milkovich answered, _Uh, why would I?_ when Ian suggested he quit, if he scoffed and said, _I’m just havin’ fun, man, this shit ain’t real_ when Ian told him he loved him, he’d die.

He’d shrivel up and die. His stomach hurts just thinking about it. He couldn’t fucking _bear_ it.

So he loves him in secret, still, though he clings to the good things, to positivity when he can.

He looks at his pictures, and he whispers to him in the dark, and he holds out hope that one day, he’ll be able to pour every ounce of held-back affection into Mickey Milkovich, who’s changed his fucking life.

\---

Over the next week following _I like...you_ , Ian practices his newfound sense of ease. 

He sends Mickey nudes--nothing too provocative, mostly soft and often silly--and for the first time since they’ve been talking, he allows himself to just succumb to absolute horniness inspired by the man he talks to every day.

Not that Mickey hasn’t made him horny before--obviously, he has. It’s just that Ian hasn’t thus far been one to whip out his dick and jerk off to a long, elaborate fantasy of the man. Up to this point, it’s mostly been a lot of waking up hard and jerking it to Mickey’s pictures, or using Mickey to help him get off with clients, or getting horny off a picture and finishing himself off quickly, seeking relief where he can.

Now, he’s allowing himself more room for indulgence. He’s stretching out in bed, hand on his cock, stroking off for no reason other than because it feels good and he wants to daydream about Mickey on him, riding him, sucking him.

Ian concocts elaborate fantasies of meeting up with him, taking him to dinner and then to bed, kissing him so soft and slow that he curls Mickey’s toes and then fucking him in long strokes that send him keening and panting.

He thinks about sucking his cock, eating his ass, fingering him while trailing his tongue through the little drips of pre-come beading at the head.

These fantasies are sexy and make him come hard, but they also feel like love, like something people do when they want to be as close as possible, ultimate sexual gratification a fantastic bonus rather than a rule.

Fuck, he’s a sap. Mickey’d probably think he was a dumbass for even having these thoughts, but he can’t help it. He thinks about him _all the time_ and he masturbates to him and he _wants him_. More than anything, he wants him.

\---  
\---

He wakes on Sunday morning wanting him in a way that’s immediately physically apparent. 

It’s nearly noon on his first day off in a row of three, and when he’d fallen asleep the night before, he’d been committed to sleeping the morning away, taking the time to truly relax after a long, stressful work week.

Apparently, his dick has other plans.

Before even opening his eyes, he slides his hand down the front of his boxers, gently looping fingers around himself and beginning a series of slow, careful strokes meant to do nothing other than to encourage the simmer of his arousal.

He feels himself, runs his fingers against his warm skin, and traces the vein along the side. Rubs his thumb idly against the head, feeling the tiniest bit of moisture against the pad of his finger. Toys with the sensitive skin at the underside, just under the head.

He slides his hand up and runs fingers through his pubes, then opens his eyes and shifts around enough so that he can tug off his boxers, flipping away the comforter and kicking the shorts off onto the floor.

Ian covers himself back up, reaches to the nightstand for his phone, and sighs.

Porn? Maybe. He pulls up the browser and types in _bareback_ , the autocomplete filling in a favorite video from his history.

He watches it for a minute, always letting his body do its own thing for the first few clips in the compilation before reaching for his dick just as the guy in the third clip comes in his partner’s ass.

For the first time, he notices that one of the men in the first clip is built like Mickey, small and strong with a soft little belly and thick thighs wrapped around the waist of the top.

Ian gets his hand on his dick early.

He watches that particular clip twice, for a little over two minutes total, working himself up to an unbearable stiffness that almost comically tents the covers. He pauses the video and blows out a breath.

Shit.

He’s having thoughts. Considerations.

Biting his lip, he pulls up his photos and scrolls until he finds Mickey’s dick pic. Enlarges it, focusing on his penis. Fuck, he wants him. 

Ian peers down at the tent in the comforter and imagines getting inside Mickey, imagines gripping his tiny little waist and fucking up into him in a way that pushes the air out of his lungs with every thrust.

He thinks his dick might explode.

He’s losing it. Losing his goddamn mind.

Ian taps Mickey’s name and stares at the two options that appear beneath--audio and FaceTime.

Okay, but what if he does this? What if he FaceTimes Mickey right now and asks him if he wants to get off together?

Is that insane? Is Ian going nuts?

Maybe.

But the thing is, when given the option, Mickey’d requested a picture of Ian masturbating. With fluids. 

He’d consented to sending him a dick pic.

Less than a week later, he’d told him he liked him.

A day after that, he’d told him he could tell him anything.

Mickey’s _into him_. They’re into each other with potentially romantic intent.

This is fine. This is expected. This is just one more shift in a line of shifts that are one day going to lead to the inevitable.

Right?

Ian squeezes his eyes shut and taps his thumb somewhere in the vicinity of the FaceTime button, telling himself that if he misses, it’s meant to be.

He doesn’t fucking miss.

He thinks he might pass out when he opens his eyes and sees his own image staring back at him as he waits for Mickey to accept the call.

Holy fuck. Holy fucking, fucking fuck. What is he doing?

Shit.

Too late to back out now, even if he wanted to. His thumb hovers over the end call button, but before he can even begin to contemplate lowering it, Mickey answers.

Ian’s heart explodes into butterflies.

Mickey’s in bed, as well, his blue comforter pulled up under his armpits and head on the pillow. His cheeks are flushed prettily, temples have the faintest sheen of sweat and clinging little hairs.

The morning sunlight streaming in from his windows lightens up his complexion and makes his freckles more apparent in a way that does nothing to kill Ian’s absolute adoration and everything to make him want to kiss the tip of his nose.

“Morning, Mickey,” Ian murmurs, voice rough from both sleep and the heart firmly lodged in his throat. 

“Why'd you call me so fuckin' early?” Mickey asks, groaning a little and stifling a yawn. He’s rumpled and sleepy. Ian thinks he’d be furnace-hot to snuggle, and his body craves it--craves the phantom warmth of his fantasy.

“It's noon.”

Mickey’s eyes flit to the side, as if checking a clock, then wander back to Ian’s. “Whatever.”

They settle in to look at each other. It’s the first time they’ve been like this together--unwashed, uncombed, eyes sleep-crusty and puffy. They’re certainly not at their most attractive, but they’re definitely at their most human, and Ian feels a rush of affection in his belly that sizzles up and manifests as pink heat in his cheeks.

Mickey’s beautiful like this. Ian imagines a world and a future in which this is the view he gets to have every morning.

His eyes wander across Mickey’s face, and he takes in all the little details of him. He notices that there’s a flush deepening across his cheekbones, that his lips are bitten-pink and parted, his hair is mussed. He’s breathing hard--has been since the beginning of the phone call, and there’s an undeniable blotchiness at his upper chest, creeping up his neck.

Is Mickey…?

Ian’s heart stutter-stops before kick-starting again. He’s hit with the distinct impression that Mickey, if not currently in the exact state Ian’s in, was in this state not long ago. Ian’d recognize that arousal-flush anywhere--has seen it in countless men over the years. Sees it on himself in the tiny box in the corner of the screen.

Holy shit, Mickey.

Something about it burns Ian up inside, makes him want to get a sneaky hand back on his dick.

Makes him want to cover Mickey’s body with his own and kiss the life out of him. Stroke back his hair. Drag his lips back and forth over the skin of his forehead. Give him love and affection on this lonely Sunday morning.

“Hey,” Ian whispers, voice going all soft because he can’t help it. He smiles, gentle.

Mickey runs a hand over his mouth and murmurs back, “Hey.”

And it’s in that moment that Mickey appears to catch on to his appearance. In an almost comical way, he gets his hand up and starts rubbing at his hair, awkwardly smoothing out the disheveled bits.

It’s cute as hell, and Ian has to bite his lip to keep from grinning like a fool.

“You good?” he asks, amusement in his voice.

Mickey rolls his eyes and rubs his thumb over his bottom lip. “What'd you call for?” 

“Mm.” Ian links his hands together and lifts them over his head, stretching, groaning a bit with it. “Just woke up. Wanted to see you.”

“You off today?”

“Yes. And today's my day off with the app, too, so I'm fucking free.” He yawns. Hums. “You had a good morning?”

Mickey’s face goes a little rigid for a second--wide, frozen as if in nerves--before softening. “Only been up for like fifteen minutes, so.”

Shit. Ian presses his lips together, holding everything back. Holding back a smile and _Uh huh, sure, Mickey_. Mostly holding back giggles like a dumb kid.

“What?” Mickey asks, voice full of put-upon offense.

Ian smiles, belly jumping with laughter on its way up and out. “Nothing.”

And well, okay. Whoops. The laughter escapes with an obnoxiously loud snort because fuck, this is so ridiculous, isn’t it? He’s horny as hell and hard as a goddamn diamond, Mickey’s clearly either just jerked it or was about to, and they’re both pretending neither of these scenarios is a reality, making small talk like a pair of acquaintances greeting each other at the supermarket.

“What's wrong with you?” Mickey asks, gruffly sweet.

“Just.” Ian sighs, face alight with a stupidly happy grin. “I'm just having a good morning.”

“You're still in fuckin' bed.”

“I know.”

Yeah. Yup.

They stare at each other for a minute, Ian smiling like an idiot, and eventually, Mickey’s lips begin to upturn in a way that makes his stomach twist.

And well, what if? What if he pushes? 

Both of them are _laughing_. There’s no fucking way Mickey doesn’t _know_. He definitely does. They’re horny on a lazy Sunday morning.

Whatever. If Ian trusts his gut in any sense of the word, which he does, then anything sexual that happens here can only be a good thing. Mickey’ll be cool with it. Mickey might actively _want_ it.

Right?

Shit. He’s nervous. He’s so, so fucking nervous, but after taking a deep breath, he steels himself enough to ask, “If I dare you to do something, will you do it?”

Mickey swipes his forearm over his eyes. “What.”

“I'm not gonna dare you until you promise me you'll do it. It's a triple-dog dare, by the way.”

“Are you fucking high?”

“I'm having a great morning, Mickey.”

He really, really is.

Mickey watches him for a moment, then narrows his eyes. “Whatever. What's your dare?”

Can he say it? _Can he_?

His limbs feel noodle-weak, but he’s brave. He pushes on. 

“I triple-dog dare you to show me your dick.”

And if that ain’t the most embarrassing sentence. He cringes. Adds, “I'll show you mine right after. Promise.”

“So this is a game of 'You Show Me Yours and I'll Show You Mine?'”

Good, Mickey! He’s getting it. Ian wants to burst once more into laughter. Instead, he apparently cranks up the dork and goes with an overly-cheery, “ _Mmhm_!” 

“Gallagher, what're you doing?” 

Ian blows out a breath. Is this Honesty Hour? Should he say it? Should he murmur, voice dropping from amused and silly to serious, sweet:

_Sorry. I just love you, I think. I woke up wanting you._

He scratches at his stubbly jaw instead and goes with something in the middle: “It's cool if you don't want to, Mickey. I'm just.” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I woke up and was like, really um.” 

Fuck. 

He laughs awkwardly and runs his hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Nevermind, we can just--”

“What?”

Ian stares at him. Moment of truth. He swipes his wrist over his eyes, rubbing away the sleep.

Mickey sounds uncharacteristically serious when he murmurs, “Tell me.”

Here goes nothing.

Ian swallows, says, “I was thinking maybe we could… Do something. Together. Or.”

Mickey looks like the rug’s been pulled out from under him. Fear flashes across his face, and Ian wants nothing more than to backtrack, to rewind time.

“It's fine,” he says quickly. “No big deal. I was just thinking.”

Mickey swallows audibly, and the fear on his face settles into something a little softer. Tentative. Nervous but encouraging.

Ian’s heart pounds.

“I mean.” Mickey says, whisper-soft. He’s wincing in a way that seems both apologetic and uncomfortable. “I sorta already, uh.” 

His eyes flit away, and he bites his lip, and maybe Ian’s not helping matters at all, but fuck it, fuck him, he bursts into laughter that feels like release.

Mickey looks back at him, and Ian wants to press their lips together.

“Yeah,” he says, pausing to laugh again. “I kinda thought so based on.” He waves his hand around, indicating Mickey's face.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, cheeks flaming up.

Here

goes

fucking 

nothing.

Ian smiles at him. “Well, can you... Again?”

The nervous eye-flitting is back, but halfway through, Mickey seems to approach some level of acceptance. Courage. Maybe he steels himself in the same way Ian’s been needing to do all morning.

“What were you wantin' to do?”

Holy fuck.

Here it is.

It’s happening.

Ian runs a hand over his face, nervous. And whatever. He’s going for it. 

“I was thinkin' we could like, jerk off. Together.”

Mickey’s mouth drops open in a way that Ian doesn’t quite know how to interpret. Still, he forges on.

“I mean, no pressure. I just. I woke up turned on as hell, and I was wonderin' if you maybe wanted to try something.” He shrugs. “Thought I'd ask.”

There’s a long enough pause that Ian feels sure Mickey’s going to exit the situation. He watches the other man as his brows furrow and his mouth twists like he’s trying to relearn how to speak.

Ian thinks he might pass out when Mickey finally seems to muster enough courage to ask, “How do we start?” 

Holy shit. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean.” Mickey pauses. “Yeah.”

They look at each other for a few seconds before breaking into twin laughs. No way is this happening. How is this possible?

For as much as Ian believes so strongly in that 90%, for as much as he trusts his gut, that 10% had felt like a row of cinderblocks on his chest.

Having them removed makes him feel like a new man.

“Okay. So.” Ian chuckles again, breathily. “I triple-dog dare you to show me your dick.”

\---

It takes Mickey a minute to apparently process the scenario. Ian watches him with hope and fascination, stupid butterflies going nuts inside him, as Mickey darts his eyes around for a minute, flush deepening, and after fiddling with something below Ian’s view, flips the camera.

Mickey’s lying down, so it’s not the best view in the world, but Ian thinks he might actually die from the sheer magnitude of what he’s able to see. He thinks he might not only die but burst into flames when Mickey nudges himself in order to give Ian a better image.

His question is certainly answered. Ian knows a post-masturbation cock when he sees it, and Mickey’s is the prime example.

He’s plump but not hard, pink from recent arousal, and the head of him’s still shiny, the slit sporting a bit of fluid that hasn’t yet worked its way out or been wiped away.

Ian breathes heavily through his mouth, body positively thrumming with excitement in all forms. He feels the distinct sensation of a little precome surge, and he knows that if he were to look, the head of his own cock would look a bit like Mickey’s in that regard.

Ian hears the _shh, shh_ of Mickey’s nervous breaths, and after several seconds, the camera moves away from his dick and focuses on his bedroom wall.

Ian considers murmuring, _Lemme see your face now. Please._ , but he doesn’t. Instead, he rubs his face with his hand and feels the sting of hot blood just under the surface of his cheeks.

“Okay, okay,” Mickey grumbles, then laughs nervously, a breathy little _chhh_. “Your turn.”

God. He’s going to explode.

He smiles, though, doing his best, and says, “Just, fair warning, I guess. I'm. A little further along in the game than you, so.”

Literal understatement. When he pulls away the covers and flips the camera, he’s slightly concerned Mickey will actually be turned _off_ by the state of him--gone way past burgeoning arousal and straight to _basically ready to come_.

He’s pointing firmly northeast, and yeah, there’s the shiny precome in his slit. 

Ian squeezes his eyes shut and, what the hell, takes himself in hand and gives the last fourth of himself a stroke.

It’s awkward to do this because he can’t see Mickey’s face--just a tremoring image of a wall. He sincerely hopes Mickey’s not having a breakdown or a meltdown or is trying to decide how best to end the call.

Ian tells himself to be positive. And anyway, he’s too far into this to start acting all shy and apologetic. He flips the front-camera back on, then shifts onto his side, placing the phone about a foot away, propped up on the other pillow and giving Mickey a view of his shoulders and up.

He waits nervously, the silence deafening as he can only stare at Mickey’s wall. Eventually, however, Mickey’s face once more appears, and Ian holds his breath as Mickey sets up his own phone in the same way.

So they’re doing this, huh? 

Holy shit.

He watches Mickey’s face, eyes scanning the details--the red cheeks, the scrunch between his brows, the teeth pressing against his bottom lip.

And then he smiles, and then he laughs, and suddenly, it’s the two of them, Ian and Mickey, giggling away and turning their faces into their pillows to stifle what feels like nothing but affectionate joy.

As their laughter settles, Mickey smiles.

He’s beautiful in a way that Ian can’t help but admire. Everything about him makes him crazy, makes him feel like he’s floating, body light, a helium heart. 

He thinks the first time he has him in bed with him, he’ll just stare at him forever.

Fuck. It feels so natural to think that. _The first time he has him in bed_. When, not if. 

Ian blows out a breath and, filling with hope, with _when_ , slides his hand downward and starts to touch himself.

He can’t believe he’s doing this. 

Mickey, clearly catching on, looks shocked for a second, then unbearably aroused in the sweetest way, his eyes scrunching and tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip. 

Ian breathes through his mouth in slow sips and fuck, just has to close his eyes because all he’s thinking of is taking Mickey Milkovich to bed, sliding inside him, and working tiny groans out of him, making him feel better than he’s ever felt in his life.

It’s overwhelming to the point that he’s worried about his stamina, especially having been so ready to go from the start. He strokes at himself gingerly, no roughness or focused rubs to his most sensitive areas.

Gingerly. He thinks Mickey would make a joke of it. And it’s stupid as hell but he can’t help but laugh and pause his strokes.

He opens his eyes to find Mickey staring at him, his own right shoulder moving just slightly in indication of what’s happening below the frame of the camera, and shit, something about it just makes him smile.

God, he’s so into him. In every single way.

The best part is that Mickey smiles back, and then he snorts with laughter, causing his phone to bounce on the mattress to such a degree that he reaches out to steady it.

“Oh my God, Mickey,” Ian says, putting on a faux-irritated voice and pulling his hand up to adjust his own phone. “I'm tryin' to jerk off to you right now.”

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey says, voice light, and he's so smiley and happy that Ian wants to ask him, _If I give you my address, will you come over? I want to spend my Sunday off with you. Just us. Just my apartment. I want to kiss you on the couch. I want to hug you in the kitchen. I want to get you into bed and give you the best orgasm of your life._

Ian thinks he might combust when Mickey’s shoulder starts to move again. He gets his hand back on himself, strokes lightly, does what he can to keep himself even with a guy who’s already come this morning.

It’s tough, though. They stare at each other. They breathe together. It feels like sex even though it isn’t really. Or is it? Is this sex? Does it count as sex if you’re not in the same room?

There’s phone sex, but Ian doesn’t really think that counts, just as he doesn’t think sexting counts.

But maybe it does. Maybe he’s having sex with Mickey right now.

The thought about sends him over the edge.

He gets his hand off himself, still breathing hard even with no stimulation. Mickey’s still going, and he’s beautiful, so beautiful, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth and eyes unfocused with pleasure.

There are tiny, unvoiced _ah_ s in his breaths, and Ian gives himself a minute, distracts himself by twisting away to grab the lube from his nightstand and applying it, hoping the slickness will reduce the friction and keep him from embarrassing himself.

He doesn’t actually work, as it only makes him think of the wetness on Mickey’s dick, sending him into a breathy moan that he couldn’t hold back if he tried.

He hears Mickey blow out a breath in reaction, and the fact that he’s clearly getting off on this--getting off on _Ian_ \--is the sexiest thing Ian’s ever experienced in his entire life. Just this. This one session of mutual masturbation over FaceTime.

It’s a struggle, but he manages to open his eyes, feeling the tell-tale tingles beginning, feeling the warmth starting to spread inside him, whispers of it flowing out and into his dick.

Mickey’s got his eyes squeezed shut, nothing but crinkles, and he’s huffing in sweet little _uh_ s out his nose and biting his lip to redness in a way that causes Ian to completely abandon any hope of holding back.

He moans soft and low, allowing himself to ungentle his strokes, to really feel it, to enjoy it, lasting be damned when you’re having maybe-sex with someone you’re this into, with someone who makes you feel good in every way, who _likes_ you.

Mickey _likes him_.

Fuck. Ian increases the speed of his strokes, getting himself there, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he loses control, before he breaks, knowing he’s only moments away from--

Mickey opens his eyes. 

He looks at him.

And in that moment, Ian feels desire like nothing he’s ever felt in his life. He crumples with it, curling into himself and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispers, the surge of orgasm sizzling through his body and pulsing out of him in wet little bursts and in pleasure that feels like loss of consciousness, everything falling away but the warmth and the feeling and the intensity that makes him breathe out in shakes, mouth open wide.

He speeds his fist on his cock, working the last of his orgasm out of him, then slows, then stops as he’s flooded with feel-good hormones.

Fuck. Holy fucking, fucking fuck.

He twists onto his back, letting the waves of satisfaction wash over him, and tilts his head toward his phone, where Mickey’s got his eyes closed again, mouth dropped open and shoulder moving fast, fast in a way that tells Ian he’s right on the edge.

Quickly, Ian grabs his phone and holds it above him, watching as Mickey makes a keening noise that--despite everything--sends another pleasure-kick to Ian’s belly. 

Mickey pants, a bit of voice working its way into each one, the breathy exhalations turning to _ah_ s, and Ian can tell the moment it hits him.

In a swift second, Mickey’s face screws up, and the camera starts to shake from his movements, and Ian’s heart is pounding, pounding, skin tingling as he stares and stares and anticipates the moment when he’ll--

He sees black. The phone’s fallen.

No way. No fucking way.

Ian groans in disappointment, the moment he’s been waiting for gone in an instant, and despite the fact that Mickey’s making the absolute best noises as he comes--despite the fact that it’s the tease of the century, Ian currently willing to empty his goddamn bank account to be transported to Mickey’s bedroom for a view of the proceedings--he can’t help but fall apart in laughter.

Of course. _Of course_ this would happen.

The bed shakes with his giggles, and when he hears Mickey quiet down, he says, “Dammit, Mickey!”

Mickey laughs then, and the phone is picked up, black of the bed going away and Mickey’s beautiful face suddenly in full view as the phone is held just above it.

Fuck, he’s perfect. He’s flushed and sweaty and smiling around pants.

God, they’ve just had sex, haven’t they?

Ian feels so good he wants to cry. He keeps laughing, instead, playfully complaining, “I literally missed the best part, motherfucker! I can't believe you.”

Mickey’s got on a dopey grin when he grumbles, “Like I did it on purpose.”

“Mmhm. Sure.”

“You're a dick.” Mickey laughs, now, and this is the best thing Ian’s ever felt. The best moment of his life.

“Oh, I'm a dick,” he says, smiling. “Pretty sure I let you see me come, Milkovich.” 

Figuring _what the hell_ , he winks at him like a dumbass and then reaches over to grab a handful of tissues from the nightstand.

He cleans up one-handed and then, after sneaking a peak at the phone screen, sees Mickey’s doing the same.

Shit. Ian can’t believe this is happening. They just _jerked off_ together and are now wiping away their come in each other’s presence. 

Their current actions are perhaps some of the _least_ romantic, and yet all Ian can think as he gets the last bit of come off his belly and tosses the used Kleenex somewhere in the vicinity of the foot of his bed is that this is the most loving thing he’s ever done with another person.

His heart pounds. He watches Mickey lean back onto his pillows and run a hand through his sweaty, floppy hair.

God, he’s beautiful.

Ian settles in. Stretches out on his back and says, “Would you believe me if I told you that I've literally never done that before?”

Mickey narrows his eyes. “You do that all the fuckin' time.”

“Not like that, though.” Ian shrugs, and he feels himself blush, skin heating beneath his eyes. “I get myself off for other guys all the fuckin' time. That was.” He sniffs. Considers saying, _a dream._ Considers saying, _That felt normal and real, like something a regular person does with someone they’re in love with._ Wants to then add, _Not like a client-escort thing, y’know?_

Instead, he settles on, “That was just like, straight up horny shit.”

He hopes Mickey gets what he means. 

Apparently, he doesn’t, but it makes Ian smile.

“Horny shit. Really.” Mickey laughs, scratching at his neck. “What the fuck's that even mean?”

“It means that I was really fuckin' into that.”

_It means that I did that with zero sense of obligation, with zero desire to be doing other things._

_It means that I did that because I’m into you for real--in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been in my entire life._

Mickey’s cheeks redden as he murmurs, “Got it.” 

Ian can hardly stand it in the absolute best way.

“And there you go again with that blush,” he says, teasing, poking, wanting more than anything to press a kiss to his pouty mouth.

Mickey flips him off. “Shut the fuck up. I'm gonna hang up.”

“Nope.” Ian closes his eyes and scrunches up his face. “Not done talkin' to you yet, bitch.”

They’re quiet for a beat or two. Mickey yawns. Precious.

“Mm. So,” Ian begins after a minute, tentative. “Was that okay?”

Ian’s expecting there to be a pause. There isn’t.

Mickey nods as if not even thinking about it and murmurs, “Yeah.”

Happiness blooms in Ian’s chest. Impossible happiness. 

“Glad to hear it,” he replies, all business but in a teasing way he knows Mickey sees past. 

Mickey. He can’t bear the degree to which he wants him. It feels like power surging through his veins. Feels like electricity.

And he’s not going to, but he wonders, idly, what Mickey would do if he just came out with it right here, right now.

_I think I might love you._

He wonders if he’d roll his eyes. Flip him off. Get uncomfortable or angry or awkward.

More than anything, he wonders if he’d somehow say, _Yeah. I think I might love you, too._

Ian turns his head to the clock.

“I'll let you go,” he says, knowing that if he doesn’t get away he’s going to lose his goddamn mind and say something he thinks it might be too soon for. He makes an excuse. “I'm starving.”

“Got those fuckin' cereal cravings again?”

“You know it. Mm. Maybe some toast with Nutella.”

Mickey’s eyebrows bunch in a sweet, grumpy little way, and he sits up in bed. “Okay,” he says. “Go.”

“Tonight, then? Same time as usual?”

Mickey scoffs. “If you don't make me watch those fuckin' videos again.”

Ian holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor.” No more TikToks. Mickey’d about reached through the phone and strangled him the night before after he’d spent the better part of an hour sending him shit he found after his first perusal of the app.

But well. He smiles. Shrugs. “Just one, maybe. I saw one on Instagram earlier that was kinda funny.”

“No. Hang up.”

Ian lights up inside with happiness. “ _Ahh_ ,” he teases. “Mickey, Mickey. So sweet. So kind.”

“Fuck off.”

Laughing, Ian sits up and then scratches at the stubble at his jaw. “Bye,” he says, knowing he looks like a kid on his way to DisneyWorld. A poor man who’s just won the lottery.

Mickey smiles at him. Sweet. Soft. 

“See ya,” he says, and Ian knows he isn’t seeing things when he spots the glimmer of unabashed affection in his eyes.

\---

Ian leans back against his headboard for a while, resting and allowing himself to absorb the events of the morning.

He thinks it’s very possible, more than possible, that Mickey might be a little in love with him.

And maybe it’s in a crush-type way, in the way in which you feel giggly over someone for mostly superficial reasons.

But maybe it isn’t. Maybe Mickey cares about him.

He _does_ care about him, doesn’t he?

The idea feels unfathomable. How can it be that someone in the world wants to kiss him and gets annoyed over his less-than-ideal work schedule and has FaceTime sex with him that ends in smiling and breathing and staring at each other?

Mickey knows about him--his bipolar, his crazy family, his unconventional second job, his loneliness, maybe. He knows about him and yet he hasn’t backed away and has instead allowed himself to move forward, to follow Ian over the edge of whatever it is they were doing and into the depths of what they are.

Ian knows there’s so much to deal with. He’s going to have to figure out the app situation, and he’s going to have to somehow narrow down exactly how Mickey feels about him before he thinks he’ll be brave enough to push for anything else.

Maybe he’ll suggest they meet up one day. Maybe the FaceTime thing will happen again and again and maybe that’ll provide a smooth transition for Ian to say, as bravely as he can, _Do you wanna maybe do this for real sometime?_

And Mickey’ll cancel his kestrel account and Ian’ll tell him he’s been waiting on him to do that for months, and they’ll live happily fucking ever after.

He hopes for it.

He climbs out of bed and pulls on his boxers and goes to make himself that Nutella toast. And he lets himself be optimistic. He lets himself be more than that _high school freshman praying for a boy to like him_. Lets himself think everything’s going to be fine. Lets himself believe he’s allowed to have good things.

And Mickey? 

Well, Mickey’s the _best_ thing.

He leans over the counter and munches his toast, scrolling idly through social media.

Then, he lets himself open up his text thread with Mickey, and without even thinking about it, without weighing the pros and cons, he lets himself send,

\------------------------

**Ian (1:21 PM):** I'm so fucking into you, Mickey Milkovich.

\------------------------

When Ian was a kid just learning about life, getting his first kisses, having his first time, trying his very hardest to find where he belonged in a world that made him feel so scared sometimes--scared and sick and more alone than he could imagine being, even while surrounded by family who loved him and men who desired him--he never once imagined he could have something like this.

He never once imagined that Mickey Milkovich would come into his life and give him a sense of hope again, a sense of optimism, a belief that maybe it’s actually okay to think that you’re allowed to have someone care about you, like you, smile at you in a way that makes your heart beat like hummingbird wings.

He searched and searched and searched for so long. Searching for nothing. Finding it.

After his diagnosis, Ian thought that maybe love would never find him. He thought that if he ever found a real boyfriend, if he ever got married, it would be some guy he’d settle for--someone who was _okay_ , who was fine in bed, who was acceptably attractive and acceptably kind and who was into him in a superficial way that made their life together boring but manageable. It would be some guy in a sea of guys he’d rather have who would be okay with his diagnosis--his forty-year sentence--who’d be okay with his family, who’d be okay and okay and okay.

He never imagined that there would be someone so close, the dirty, rough kid who’d steal from his teenage place of work, who’d not only be acceptable in all the important ways but more than that. More than just acceptable. More than just okay. Who’d be perfect for him. Who’d make his heart happy. Who’d _care_.

Someone he could imagine loving, spending time with, being stupid with, getting off with in a way that only ever happens when you fucking _connect_.

Ian never imagined he’d fall in love with someone he thinks might one day love him back in all the ways that matter and even the ones that don’t. 

But well, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 8:  
> -Carrie Yazel is the girl Ian tells Kev he had a crush on in fifth grade because she was "the one who looked most like a dude."
> 
> -I wonder what Roger "Donkey Dick" Spikey is up to these days.
> 
> -Ian's May/June 2020 obsession with Dua Lipa's "Future Nostalgia" album may or may not be inspired by my May/June 2020 obsession with that album. Speaking of, don't pay too much attention to the timeline. It _sort of_ checks out, but I definitely feel like there are more weeks in certain months than there should be--I just haven't sat down and made a chapter-by-chapter timeline that matches with calendar days. It's fine, though, don't squint too much.
> 
> -This was the last full chapter before Ian and Mickey admit their feelings toward each other. Boy, am I glad. Honestly, writing this from Ian's POV is excruciating because all I'm thinking is, _Ian. Buddy. Pal. Just tell him. He feels exactly the same way._
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with this! Apologies for not updating last month! We know where this is going, though, so hopefully it wasn't too bad of a wait. <3333
> 
> ♥️
> 
> Gray


End file.
